


Valley of the Dolls

by Teese



Series: When You're Upside Down [2]
Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anger, Character Development, Columbine, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Falling In Love, Friendship, Infidelity, Johnny is a father, Loveless Marriage, M/M, Manson is moody as fuck, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Esteem Issues, Trust Issues, Violence, a lot of absinthe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 09:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 79,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20722307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teese/pseuds/Teese
Summary: This is a fucked-up love story. It isn’t ‘boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love and live happily ever after’; it’s ‘Marilyn Manson meets Johnny Depp and hell on earth ensues’, hell because both have anger issues, are selfish and don’t know how to love. And when you’re a self-involved asshole who doesn’t know how to love, you do stupid, hurtful shit, and lives are ruined. In this story, Johnny is the main asshole, and he’s a coward. Marilyn is butthurt and doesn’t know if he can forgive Johnny, but who knows, maybe he can? Human hearts can be flexible, after all, even when they shouldn’t be.It gets worse before it gets better. Johnny’s life goes straight to hell. But when everything goes to hell, you’ve got a tough decision to make: Be happy with living in your own bullshit, or, well, do something about it. Can he turn his life around? And perhaps more importantly, can he turn Marilyn’s life around?





	1. Women

**Author's Note:**

> And the fun begins. 
> 
> A couple of chapters in, things get complicated and dark. For now, enjoy the cute stuff.

August 22, 2000

Los Angeles, California 

As they stepped out of the black limousine, the flashing camera lights went off all around them. Brian felt uneasy about the attention – he often did when he wasn’t onstage – and their heated argument not five minutes earlier hadn’t helped. Rose had been difficult those last few days. It was about his ‘debauched’ lifestyle, about the drugs and the partying, and he wasn’t about to change. He had, after all, never lied to her about any of it. If she had hooked up with Marilyn Manson expecting a budding family man, it was her problem and hers alone. Did it make him an asshole? Probably. Then again, he had never claimed to be a saint.

They walked toward the entrance, time moving slowly as the cameras went off. Rose was clad in a skintight black dress that showed off her perfect curves. She was quite the sight to behold. In a way, she reminded him of art – beautiful yet painful – and the thought stirred his anger. However, when she paused, waiting for him to catch up, he couldn’t keep himself from smirking. She clasped his hand tightly, whispering, “Let’s argue on a less lovely day. I want to enjoy myself.” 

He nodded. The anger, or perhaps it was just annoyance, ebbed away at the sight of her smile. Her lips were red and shimmery, and she wore thick eyeliner and had dotted her cheek with a beauty spot. One could say a lot about Rose, and one could say even more about her temper, but in spite of her flaws, she was absolutely irresistible. They were almost three years into their relationship now, and of course there would be some ups and downs. Brian found himself agreeing with her. They should bury the hatchet, even if it was just for the night.

“Sure.” 

She squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

The moment they stepped inside, the magic afterglow of their reconciliation faded. Rose, who had criticized him for popping pills and drinking enough absinthe to kill a horse, nearly ran over to the bar and ordered cava. She would drink enough of the foul stuff to vomit pink for the next two days. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Jeordie was there with what he presumed to be a random girlfriend, but upon closer inspection, he realized that he had met her before.

“Mazz!” the bassist half-yelled from the other side of the banquet hall. Brian already knew he was high on something. It was rather obvious, seeing as he was munching on cocktail shrimps while grinning manically. The frontman felt like slapping him across the face, but in spite of his anger, he felt the tiniest tinge of jealousy. He wanted to get high too. _But _he had promised Rose to be on his best behavior – even if she was drowning herself in something as disgusting as cava. The double standard left him with a bad taste in his mouth. She, according to herself and yet completely unbeknown to her, was holier than the Blessed Virgin Mary. 

“… Twigs,” he muttered without taking his eyes off the girl he had seen once before. His memories from that night were hazy, but still. She wasn’t easy to forget, and that wasn’t entirely positive. “I see you’re… paying for company.”

The girl narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s it to you?” she asked, putting her hand on her hip. 

“My fucking reputation,” he immediately shot back, his voice a low hiss.

“Um.” Jeordie frowned at the two of them while stuffing another cocktail shrimp into his mouth, uninterested in participating in the conversation. He had been in the band long enough to know what a ticking bomb looked like. Brian, normally quiet and reserved, had some unresolved anger issues, and after Columbine, those anger issues had escalated. One wrong move and BOOM!

“Yeah, ‘cause that reputation is so great anyways.” 

Brian snorted. “And you think I want prostitution added to my list of offences?”

“You’re the only person here who knows,” the girl, a high-end prostitute dressed like Morticia Addams, replied stubbornly. “But if you continue talking like that, the whole room will know. Do you want _that_?”

“Oh, the whole room?” Brian echoed, letting out a mirthless laugh. “More like the whole goddamn world.”

Rose was suddenly standing next to him with a huge grin plastered on her face. She punched him playfully in the arm and asked him if he wanted a drink, and before he could argue that he had promised her to be a good boy, he answered, “Get me a whiskey on the rocks, will you.” Rose, who had already had two drinks and was sipping on her third glass of cava, nodded. She was suddenly so compliant and loving, like a girl ought to be. He wondered if it would translate into a good, satisfying fuck before they passed out in bed – hopefully in bed and not in the bathtub again – and pressed a kiss to the side of her mouth, delivered with a promise of more to come.

“You’re the best,” he murmured.

She smiled sweetly. “I know.”

Rose never returned with those drinks. At some point, she had disappeared. Brian had no idea if she was still in the building or not, but he had a sinking feeling she had left, drunk and adventurous, and he, the Antichrist in the flesh, wasn’t enough to excite her. Jeordie had eaten too many shrimps, combined with alcohol and something else, and in the end, he was the one puking pink, not Rose. The Morticia Addams lookalike had waited outside the bathroom for about ten minutes, but when Jeordie’s green face had peeked from behind the door, his breath stinking like gutters of hell, she had fled from the scene. Brian had stopped her and enquired about Jeordie’s health, and she had said, ‘Don’t go anywhere near him,’ before demanding to get paid. Because he didn’t want to cause another scene, he had coughed up the money.

_Alone, _he thought, looking around the room and all the plastic people in it. _Maybe I should just go home? _

“Brian!” he heard Rose yell from somewhere behind him, her voice shrill. As he turned around to face her, he was met by her fist, which she had planted in his face. For a split second, he didn’t really understand what the heck was going on. He registered a sharp pain in his left eye, and the sensation startled him, making him bellow like a wounded animal. Then the rage – the pent-up rage from Rose’s incessant nagging he’d been ignoring for months – welled up inside him like hot, red magma about to spurt out of a volcano. 

“What-the-hell, Rose?” he yelled once the last remnants of his confusion had ebbed away and grabbed her hand to keep her from hitting him a second time. “What the hell?” 

“You slept with someone in Prague!” she screamed, yanking her hand back. “I know you did, you fucking asshole. Maybe I should go sleep with someone else tonight, huh?” she asked, her eyes smoldering with a kind of aggression that mirrored his own state of mind to a T. “Maybe I should-”

“You know what, Rose?” he asked curtly, cutting her short.

“What?” Her brows snapped together, obviously confused that he hadn’t lost his head over the accusation, and to be fair, it didn’t usually take this much of an effort to get a reaction from him. But on this particular evening, seeing as he’d honored her wish, he was sober and clear-headed, and she certainly wasn’t. She was drunk, and he saw right through her bullshit. He could tell that this frame-up had been an impulsive move on her part, a very unimaginative ambush constructed by her cava-soaked brain. He was about to retaliate with a caustic, cutting response, something hurtful that would inspire tears, when he felt a sharp sting of pain in his eye, a pain that made him wince. 

“What?” Rose demanded, her eyes flashing. “What!”

Brian glared at her, hoping she’d drop dead or choke on a cocktail cherry. As he reached up to touch his eye, pain sheeted through him, and his vision became blurry, unfocused. He was seeing red, literally speaking. Looking at his fingers, he saw blood. It took him a moment to connect the dots, but when he did, the volcano was very close to erupting.

“… Did you just stab me with your fucking ring?”

The raven-haired man instinctively covered his left eye with his hand, worried that she had done some actual damage to his eye. Then, once he realized what she’d actually done, he almost laughed at the irony of it. She had cut him with the engagement ring he had given her six months ago. Prague had happened a year ago, and yeah, he had slept with some slut, but they had been on a break. Rose had been fucking her ex the entire time. He had never complained about it. The difference between them was, of course, that he wasn’t a whiny bitch. 

“You slept with some whore! You deserved it!” she screamed, sounding like a fox being skinned alive. Brian just glared at her, aware that everyone in the room was paying attention to the heated argument they were having, a public display he could’ve been without. The lack of a verbal response silenced her for a short while, and then she smirked, an idea brewing behind those cold, cold eyes. He wanted to wipe her face clean of the smugness, but he was too intelligent to say something he’d later regret. Too sober. 

“Maybe I should sleep with Roberto tonight – or what do you think, _Brian_?” 

“Maybe you should,” he said without raising his voice. “I sure as hell don’t want you in my bed tonight.” 

Only then did Rose notice the unwanted attention she had drawn to them. He knew her well enough to see that she was mortified, at least for a split second, and then she started putting on a show for the stunned audience: Her lower lip started quivering, and the fake tears that rolled down her face immediately made him seem like a real jerk, never mind that she was a professional actress. Before the singer could say another word, she took off her ring and threw it at the floor, shouting, “Go fuck yourself, Brian Warner!”

_I’d rather fuck me than you right now, you stupid cunt, _he thought to himself, glaring at her as she made her grand exit, and it was a grand exit; in a beautiful fit of rage, she slammed one of the huge glass doors into the wall, making some of the plaster come off. A crack appeared in the glass. Another round of stunned silence ensued, and with her gone, everyone in the room stared at him like he was the new main attraction of this little freakshow, and it wasn’t that far off, not really. He didn’t belong here. Hadn’t ever belonged here, here among the ‘beautiful’. 

_I hate you all, _he thought, gritting his teeth. One of them, a middle-aged man in an expensive Armani suit, came up to him and put his hand on his arm. Brian wanted to punch him in the face. Personal space seemed to be an alien concept to this dude, and Brian didn’t like it.

“Lighten up, pal,” the stranger told him, trying to be helpful. “The evening’s still young.”

He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. These people were delusional idiots.

“Sure.”

The guy smiled and then sauntered across the room, making himself scarce. A young man in a suit jacket, perhaps a member of staff, plucked the ring from the floor and placed it in the palm of his hand, wishing him good luck. Well, he needed it. Luck, that is. The only small blessing of tonight’s train wreck was that the partygoers were, for the most part, colleagues and acquaintances of Rose, not him. Lucky devil, right? No, not really. No one would think to blame a damsel in distress, and after Rose’s temper tantrum, they’d assume that he’d abused her, that _he _was the asshole here. What he needed more than luck was a drink. And quite miraculously, a bartender came up to him with a glass of whiskey on the rocks. Her compassionate smile was enough to restore his faith in women, at least temporarily, and when she whispered, “Your eyelid is bleeding, Mr. Manson,” and handed him a napkin, all he could say was, “Oh.” And then, without thinking twice about it, he handed her the engagement ring.

“Take it,” he said, offering her a sad smile. “You’re the only girl who’s been kind to me all day, after all.”

Her eyes grew wide and she thrust it back into his free hand. “No-no, Mr. Manson-”

“Sell the damn thing – I don’t give a fuck,” he said, interrupting her midsentence, and then exasperatedly handed the ring back to her. “Just _please_, never let me see it again.”

With that said, he stormed off. He was in dire need of some fresh air and some alone time, away from little women who understood nothing. Or maybe it was him they didn’t understand? Not that he could blame them for that. He didn’t always understand himself either.

Out on the balcony, the world was peaceful. The night sky was somber and starless, as was always the case with large cities, but the moon was still visible, as big and as bright as ever. For an oddly nostalgic moment there, he yearned to go back to that familiar neighborhood in Canton. There wasn’t much to say about that deprived town and its inhabitants, but if nothing else, the night sky in Canton had always been spangled with stars. But after his grandparents had died and Chad had left town, there was nothing left of his childhood. He shuddered at the thought of that dark, dark cellar, wondering who had cleaned the place after his Grandpa had died. His mother had probably aided his grandmother in doing so, and they must have been abhorred, never once having mentioned the monstrosities they had stumbled across in that hellhole.

“Quite a night you’re having,” said a deep, gentle voice from behind him, disturbing him in his thoughts. He rolled his eyes, wondering who was about to take on the Antichrist to defend Rose’s dignity, not that there was much left of it. Maybe they deserved one another, being as fucked up as they were? But no, even he didn’t deserve that kind of humiliation.

“No shit,” he snorted without turning around, uninterested in a confrontation, especially if Rose was the ultimate prize. She was up for grabs. Finders keepers. He didn’t care.

“Ah, well,” the man said. Brian knew he was standing in the doorway, staring at the back of his head. “Was she your lady friend?”

“My fiancée,” he mumbled, letting out a sigh of annoyance. “She got wasted while banning me from doing the same – and then proceeded to have a public meltdown.” He paused, aware that he had already said too much, still feeling drunk on emotion. “Are you gonna fight me or something?” he then asked, hoping the man would take the hint and leave. Well, that or beat the living shit out of him, but that wasn’t new.

The man, obviously not the least bit intimidated, chuckled and said, “Cigarette?”

_So much for solitude, _he thought and turned around to take a look at the man. When he saw who he had in fact been talking to, he thanked some kind of deity for the make-up he wore. Underneath the white foundation, he was blushing like a schoolgirl in the back of an old Dodge on prom night. The man was none other than Johnny Depp – the once fresh-faced actor he had tried to interview in Florida more than a decade ago. He looked better now, more defined, and little about his appearance testified to the pretty boy persona he had once been reduced to. No, a handsome, mature man had taken the teen idol’s place, and he carried himself with an air of confidence and shyness that, when combined, was quite fascinating. Johnny wasn’t a big man by any means, but standing face to face with the actor, Brian thought that his presence was overwhelming. _That _was new. 

“… Alright,” he said and accepted the offered cigarette. Johnny lit it for him with his lighter. It was hard to tell out there in the dark, but Brian thought he saw him smile. 

“Women, huh?” Johnny said, clearly amused.

The raven-haired man raised one non-existent eyebrow.

_How intuitive, _he wanted to say with biting sarcasm. _How very fucking intuitive. _He did, however, find that he couldn’t quite utter the words, which was ridiculous. No one had ever kept him from delivering some particularly cutting remark. He _was _an arrogant bastard, after all. 

“Woman,” he corrected him before exhaling a plume of pale blue cigarette smoke. “You know, that particular one who just accused me of committing adultery before all _her _friends and co-workers.”

Brian watched the man’s lips as they curved into what was definitely a smile. He suddenly understood why his boss back in the day had been worried about ovaries exploding. That smile was charming and sweet, just the right amount of boyish, and that wasn’t surprising. That smile was dashing and gorgeous and sexy. It was also unmistakably shy. Yes, Johnny Depp was one of _those_. You know, one of those people who look away the moment their face breaks into a smile. The singer wanted to shake his head at the thought. Could someone like Johnny be shy? Not that he knew anything about him other than his career. He did, after all, know better than to put his faith in sleazy gossip magazines that printed wild stories just for the sake of it. If one were to believe everything one read, one might as well get baptized.

After a thoughtful silence, the older man finally spoke.

“I didn’t care for ‘Antichrist Superstar’, you know.” Again, that shy smile before averting his gaze.

“Wanna know a secret?” Brian asked as he stubbed out his cigarette on the ornate wrought-iron railing. When their eyes met in the darkness, he smiled and said, “I didn’t really care for it either.”

“No?”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t mine as much as it was Trent’s.”

“Sounds like we’re talking about some woman you accidentally knocked up.”

Brian laughed softly. “It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

Johnny nodded at the statement, his face taking on a thoughtful expression, almost introspective. Brian immediately knew what went through his head: Every work of art is a child born through blood, sweat and tears. They were both artists. If nothing else, they had that in common.

“I never liked Nine Inch Nails either,” the brunet said after some time of consideration, now puffing away at a cigarette of his own. “Such a violent vibe. Tell me, _Merlin _– is it customary for your friend there – Mr. Reznor – to want to make his listeners turn into self-pitying sadists?”

“It’s Marilyn.”

“Mer-lin,” he repeated slowly, emphasizing the pause between the two syllables. The mispronunciation had been completely intentional. When the singer frowned at him, confused, he flashed him another one of those shy smiles. It grazed his lips for a split second, but it still caught his attention. “Good name. Not quite ‘Alice Cooper’, but a good name nonetheless.”

“At least I didn’t name myself after a spirit I claim to have met during a game of Ouija.”

“True, true.” 

“And, well, heck if I know, but I guess he wants to be a razorblade,” Brian thought out loud, smiling without really meaning to. “Thinks he’s a tough boy. I don’t think he is, not really.”

He recalled the wild, drug-laced nights he had shared with Trent back in 1995. Before they had started to put down the music to his breakthrough album, they had stayed up for days on end, high on crystal meth and on the idea of making it big. When the partying had taken a turn for the extreme, and it had gotten more extreme than that, Trent, who had this larger than life yet lower than low attitude Brian couldn’t stomach anymore, had abandoned the ship. 

“Pardon?”

Johnny gave him an odd look, having already forgotten his question, and the word ‘razorblade’ hadn’t made much sense.

“Reznor, I mean.”

“Ah, him. I prefer Dylan,” Johnny said, exhaling cigarette smoke through his nose. “Voice like sand and glue – gets the point across. And lyrics that don’t inspire homicide, which is a fine quality indeed.”

“Don’t know too much about the old crow, but yes, I’ve heard the Bowie song.”

The older man gave a low chuckle. “Some common ground then. And that’s an album I can like on a good day when I’m worse for wear. You know,” he brought his hands to his chest and pretended to be groping an imaginary pair of breasts, “the titty one.”

At that, Brian laughed.

“It’s called ‘Mechanical Animals’, and I-”

“… Mr. Manson,” someone said in a quiet, hesitant voice. Turning around, Brian noticed that it was the bartender who had been gifted with Rose’s engagement ring. She was blushing, obviously uncomfortable with whatever bad news she was about to deliver. “Mr. Manson,” she repeated, and the way she said it made it sound like an apology. “I believe… um, I believe your bassist is in need of some assistance. I’m afraid he’s flooded the bathroom.”

“Fuck,” the rockstar muttered, running a hand through his dark locks. “I’ll be there in a second.”

The girl left. Brian let out a string of profanities, angry and yet not. Johnny raised a brow at him, his expression a peculiar mixture of amusement and disbelief.

“… Your bassist… flooded… the bathroom?”

“Yeah. Chased away his date while he was at it too.” The singer rolled his eyes, resigned. Jeordie wasn’t one to think before acting. “I better get him home so he doesn’t end up somewhere he shouldn’t be, with people he shouldn’t be with. I’d prefer it if he didn’t die in a puddle of vomit in the back of some dodgy van. He’s the best songwriter I’ve had.”

“Well,” Johnny said in a sympathetic tone of voice, extending his hand to the musician. “I’m glad to have finally met you, Mary-Lin.”

“We’ve met before, Johnny,” Brian said enigmatically and shook the tan, calloused hand, his eyes dancing with mirth. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “In Florida.” 

Johnny looked confused, understandably so, but surprised the younger man by stating, “And we’ll meet again – in Los Angeles.” Without saying a word, he pulled a pen out of his pocket and rolled up the sleeve of Brian’s black button-down shirt. When he saw the tattoos, some of which were rather cartoony and goofy, he paused, tracing the drawn lines with his eyes. He smiled and said, “That’s what rock ‘n’ roll is supposed to look like. I’d like to add a little something of my own though.” Before Brian knew what had even happened, he had Johnny Depp’s number scribbled down on his forearm. And before he could say something about it, Jeordie stood in the doorway, swaying on his feet like the drunkard he was.

“Mazz,” he whimpered, clutching his stomach. His pale gray suit was stained with pink vomit. 

Johnny cleared his throat. “Lads,” he said, rolling down Brian’s sleeve again and patting him on the shoulder, aware that he was in for a long, long night. “Have a _splendid _evening. I better get going myself – I’ve got a kiddie at home, after all.”

Jeordie looked like he was about to say something, but he threw up on his shoes instead. Johnny let out a quiet, “Ah,” before hurrying past him, merging with the sea of celebrities inside the banquet hall, all of them clad in black suits and dresses. For some reason, Jeordie had missed out on the dress code, but that hardly mattered. The suit would have to be burned at the stake. That smell was ungodly, and not in the good way.

“Alright,” Brian said, sighing. “Let’s get you home.” 

“Hey, Mazz… wasn’t… wasn’t that… Schi…Schissorhands?”

“U-huh,” the singer mumbled while dialing his driver’s number. He had to ask him to get a bucket from somewhere – or worst-case scenario, a plastic bag. Anything that could salvage the car from the putrid smell of shrimp and vomit. “And surprise, surprise. You scared him off.”

Jeordie hummed in agreement, smiling weakly, and said, “Sorry, Mazz,” which he didn’t really mean. Brian didn’t really care either. He was more worried about Rose – about her whereabouts – and prayed to Satan that she wouldn’t be at the house. For the first time in a long time, he started feeling this bitter kind of resentment coiling his stomach. He recognized the feeling as that of dead love. It was stupid. Hadn’t he given up on love after that bitch Michele had broken his heart, after all? Wasn’t like he’d ever _trusted _Rose, so there wasn’t much to be sad about.

“Hello? Danny?” he muttered quietly, waiting for the person on the other end of the line to respond. There was a lot of rustling – and the sound of a woman speaking in Spanish.

“Hey, Mr. Manson. You’re ready to go home?” his driver asked, sounding mildly surprised. His boss would normally stay out late into the night. When he picked him up from neighborhoods he shouldn’t have gone to, he would be dead on his feet, drunk and slurring his words. Now he didn’t even sound tipsy.

“Change of plans, Danny,” he said without taking his eyes off his bandmate. “You’ll drive me and Jeordie to his place.” Again, the bassist puked all over his shoes. The raven-haired man wrinkled his nose in disgust and said, “Oh, and you don’t happen to have a bucket nearby, do you?”


	2. Greasepaint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friendship blossoms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter :) 
> 
> Comments are appreciated <3 They encourage and inspire me.

September 13, 2000

Los Angeles, California

Was Johnny Depp insane? Brian wanted to say no – he wanted to say that Johnny Depp wasn’t insane. But when he turned the question around and asked himself whether or not Johnny Depp was sane, he found that he couldn’t actually answer that question. Of course, Brian didn’t know Johnny at all. They had met briefly on that balcony – moments after Rose had torn his already sketchy reputation to shreds – and they had perhaps bonded? No, that wasn’t it. One doesn’t bond with someone after just ten minutes. But something had possessed the actor to reach out to him, something about that meeting. Now he had his number written down on a piece of paper, seeing as three weeks had gone by and the ink on his arm had worn off. 

Rose had left him for good. He didn’t mind. It did, however, feel strange to walk around the house. Her missing items, or the empty spaces left behind, had already become eyesores. The empty walk-in wardrobe, which was a blessing in disguise, hurt him the most. He had cleaned it out for her. Hell, he had sold and given away his stage clothes so that her dresses would fit in there, and all of those costumes had been important to him. Some of them had been his designs. She had never even thanked him for his selflessness, and she had never repaid the favor.

_That she-devil_, he thought sullenly to himself. _She even stole my make-up. _

He hated her. He hated how she made him skim through the book he was reading without remembering any of the words. Grim images of the last few weeks – the fights and the constant stream of text messages – had become a jumbled mess in his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. At the same time, he missed having her around; he missed having _someone _around. Solitude was good for a while, but solitude had eventually melted into loneliness. It wasn’t like he was a particularly sociable creature, but he’s grown accustomed to having her there. He frowned at the thought. Now he had no one.

The sound of the telephone ringing made him jump. His book, something brainless Rose had bought on a trip to Venice but had ultimately failed to finish, fell on the floor with a soft thud.

“Yes,” he grumbled, expecting to hear Rose’s voice on the other end of the line. He jumped for a second time when he heard a faintly familiar voice say, “Um, is this Mer-lin?”

“Uh…” He panicked for a moment, unsure of what to say or how to present himself. “Yeah, hi, it’s Br- Manson.”

“_Br_-Manson?” The voice sounded amused.

“Manson,” he corrected himself, and then he pinched the bridge of his nose. How was it possible for a grown ass man to forget his own name? Then again, it wasn’t every day one received unexpected phone calls from Johnny Depp. 

“I was wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner?” the actor asked, his voice as gentle as a southern breeze. Brian wasn’t sure why he was blushing and hoped he wasn’t about to fall ill. He certainly felt like he was coming down with something, his cheeks flushed. 

“Dinner?” he echoed in an embarrassingly squeaky voice. “Today?”

“Yes – at my beach house. Actually, I would pack some clothes, some swim trunks, or a bathing suit, if that’s what you’re into,” he said, rambling on about what could only be referred to as a vacation. “Oh, and a toothbrush.” 

Brian wrinkled his forehead, confused. He wondered if the actor was playing some kind of trick on him.

“I… what?”

There was a pause. Johnny started laughing.

“I’m simply asking if you’d like to go to my beach house. It’s in Malibu. I need some time away from the kiddie, and I rather enjoyed your company last month.”

_But we talked for ten minutes! _The singer’s non-existent eyebrows nearly touched his hairline. He was about to refuse, but when he heard what could only be Rose’s car in the driveway, he was swift to say, “I’ll be ready in forty-five minutes.”

“I’ll be there in thirty, if you don’t mind me-” 

“Alright. Thirty minutes.” Brian hung up on him the second Rose barged into the house, the front door slamming into the wall, all the while screaming like a banshee. He rubbed his temples, praying to some kind of deity that she wouldn’t trash the place. For about five minutes, she screamed herself hoarse, and it took him a while to understand what she was doing inside his house. Well, her excuse anyways. She was there on the pretense of finding a pair of tacky diamond earrings he hadn’t seen since long before the breakup.

“Look, Rose,” he muttered angrily while following her into the bedroom. “I couldn’t have cared less about some stupid earrings. You don’t live here anymore and can’t just intrude on my privacy whenever you feel like it. Do you understand?” 

She absolutely did not understand. Narrowing her eyes into slits, she yelled, “I want my goddamn earrings, Brian Warner!” When he didn’t respond and merely stared at her, unimpressed and more than a little annoyed, she added, “They’re a family heirloom,” in a somewhat friendlier tone of voice. Brian rolled his eyes at the melodrama, aware that she was lying through her teeth. The point of this lie was to get him to pay for her ‘loss’, but that, he thought, was _not _going to happen. 

“Your mother bought them two years ago,” he pointed out. “For your birthday.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, her voice low and gravely. “I want to pass them on to my daughter.”

… _‘My daughter’, _his mind echoed, and then, as panic started to set in, his eyes widened. _Holy shit. _

“You’re not pregnant, are you?”

She rolled her eyes. “My future daughter. With _Roberto_.”

He glared at her, aware that she was only there to raise hell – and to rub some salt in the wound, because playing the I-want-to-make-Brian-suffer game was apparently a great source of amusement to her.

“By all means, search the place. They’re not here though.”

“Maybe you gave them to your little girlfriend in Prague,” she thundered, balling her hands into tight fists. “I’ve looked everywhere else!”

Brian rolled his eyes at her once more, seriously questioning whether he was secretly a masochist for dating these women, and left her to it. While she was preoccupied with making his bedroom a crime scene, turning the drawers of the dresser inside out and searching through his pockets, he started packing some necessities – and a toothbrush. He didn’t actually own swim trunks, but only because he was afraid of the ocean, a childhood fear of his. He blamed _Jaws _for its inaccurate portrayal of sharks, which had affected him as a youngster and ultimately in adulthood as well. There was also the fact that he didn’t like the beach. He scrunched up his nose as he thought about sand between his toes, between his ass cheeks and everywhere else, not to mention sunburnt skin and tan lines. He frowned. What the actual fuck had he gotten himself tangled into? 

“What’s this?” Rose asked, pulling out a red lace bra from under the bed.

“A bra,” he said without looking directly at her, though completely unembarrassed. “We aren’t together anymore, Rose. You’re the one who ended our engagement, but perhaps you were too drunk to remember it. I do, however, remember it quite well, and you weren’t so gracious about it.”

She laughed bitterly. “And that makes it okay to sleep around less than a month after?”

“Of course,” he grumbled, meeting her angry gaze head on. “I don’t have a ring on my finger. That means I can finger any girl I want – and more.” 

When Rose started screaming her head off, accusing him of having cheated a million times with a million different girls, he walked outside and sat down on the steps. How come he attracted crazy girls the way a pile of crap attracts flies?

_I hope she burns the place to the fucking ground_, he thought to himself, still hearing her screams from inside the house. The sound of something shattering – presumably something expensive he cared about – made him flinch. _And herself with it. That witch. _

The moment Johnny showed up in his car, an old Chrysler that fit his eccentric image rather well, he abandoned the ship. If the bitch broke every valuable item in his house, so be it. He couldn’t handle her spoiled temper tantrums anymore, or the constant shouting. Besides, now that they were over and out, she wasn’t his responsibility, and he didn’t want her to snake her way back into his life again. No, it would be smart to lay low for some time. If she _actually _started dating again – probably Roberto, her plan B for as long as he had known her – he would hear about it. Some gossip magazine would print a story along with some revealing photos, saying she’d finally dumped the monster for a pretty boy. 

“You look stressed.” Johnny raised an eyebrow, looking the singer up and down. He was wearing sweatpants and an oversized David Bowie T-shirt and mismatching socks, one green and one gray. His long black hair was messy and hadn’t been washed in a few days. “I could’ve come later,” he said apologetically, aware he’d caught him off guard. “Do you want some more time to pack? I can turn around-”

“No, it’s fine,” Brian said, offering the man a rather unconvincing smile. “I’m fine.”

As soon as he he’d said that, he realized that he was trembling. He always had been an angry man, and it wasn’t really getting better with age, but trembling with rage wasn’t something he normally did. Johnny had obviously noticed and was looking concerned, perhaps assuming he’d done drugs or something equally inappropriate. He let out a sigh, feeling defeated, and said, “Rose, the ex, stopped by,” to put him at ease.

“Ah, well, I have wine at the beach house,” Johnny said. The corner of his mouth quirked up. “And plenty of it.”

Brian nodded, relieved. “I think I need it.”

“You and me both, pal,” the actor said, grinning. “You don’t know the meaning of the word 'tired' unless you’ve got a toddler at home.” 

* * *

Who knew Johnny Depp could cook? Well, Brian supposed he had lived in France long enough to pick up some French – in more ways than one – and indeed, he had disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Brian with a very big glass of wine, his feet in mismatching socks propped on the ottoman as he listened to Alice Cooper on the stereo. Not forty minutes later, the actor returned clad in a pink apron with a big smile on his face. Not that Brian knew, but to Johnny, seeing the frontman reclining on the chesterfield, his eyes closed and his lips mouthing the words of the song, he could barely contain his amusement – and delight. After the brief meeting on the balcony three weeks ago, Marilyn Manson had lingered on his mind. He had played his records, watched his music videos and read his autobiography. Well, he could hardly tell him that, but yes, he was fascinated with the shock rocker. In a way, it felt odd seeing him in his current state, without make-up and wearing sweatpants. With the exception of the shaved eyebrows, it was such a normal sight to behold, and the word ‘normal’ wasn’t usually one used to describe Marilyn Manson. 

“Let’s eat, shall we?” he suggested, nodding in direction of the hallway. “There’s more wine as well. I’m afraid it’s white.” He smiled again, his eyes gleaming. “We’re having seafood.”

Brian inwardly groaned at the prospect of eating seafood while pretending to like it. He remembered the few times his mother had tried force-feeding him fish, especially that salty cod with a spoon of butter on top, and wondered if he could suffer through it without gagging. 

“Sounds… interesting,” he lied. Johnny smiled.

“I can assure you it’s quite good,” he said reassuringly while reminding himself not to laugh. The disapproving frown on his face reminded him of his daughter. “I’m a decent chef. You’ll like it.” 

The singer smirked at the confident attitude. “I’m white trash through and through,” he said, raking his fingers through his dark locks. He wondered if Johnny had a hairbrush he could borrow. “I’d prefer going to Mickey D’s for some nuggets.”

“Ah, you needn’t explain. I’m from Kentucky,” the older man said, tilting his head to the side, his wavy brown locks falling sideways from his eyes. “But my stay in France, and parenting as well, come to think of it, helped me develop my taste buds. Couldn’t really eat fried crap around my little girl, or my French wife.”

Brian shrugged, still not thrilled about the dinner. “I’ll try the seafood.”

“Wash it down with some wine.”

“Lots of wine,” the singer muttered under his breath. Johnny laughed and guided him down the corridor, opening the door to the dining room. They were greeted by the delightful fragrances of foods Brian couldn’t even begin to name. He recognized the citrusy smell of lime though, and before he could ask what he had actually meant by ‘seafood’, Johnny said, “I’ve made us some tom yum,” as if that would explain everything.

The singer shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

“It’s a Thai soup. A little bit spicy.”

“And here I was expecting something French.”

“French food is overrated. I’ve found that Asian cuisine is generally more appealing, though I’ve had some decent meals in Italy.”

“Of course you did,” the raven-haired man said, barely suppressing a snort. “They have pizza.”

“And we, my friend, have tom yum.” 

They sat down at a surprisingly small dining table. Well, Brian did. Johnny served him the soup and poured him another big glass of wine, and then he sat down, smiling shyly. Brian still couldn’t get over the fact that Johnny was seemingly shy and confident at the same time, like he couldn’t quite make up his mind. He knew that the dish was probably delicious, but shrimp wasn’t his favorite thing to eat. In spite of his concerns, he tried it and was surprised to find that it wasn’t horrid, even if the shrimp made him think of Jeordie’s bathroom disaster. 

“This meal wasn’t inspired by my bassist, was it?”

Johnny shook his head. “No, I just happen to like seafood. And we’re by the sea.”

The singer nodded. “I like it,” he admitted after some time. It was spicy, but the coconut milk took the edge off the chili, and the lime gave it that little extra. In short, he was impressed. “It’s different.”

“Thank you.”

When he had emptied his plate and finished his second glass of wine that evening, he took a hold of the spoon and stared at it, wondering what on earth he was doing eating fancy soup that Johnny Depp had made. Why had the man called him? He frowned at the spoon.

“Why are we having a staring contest with a spoon?”

The singer moved his gaze from the piece of cutlery and directly into the actor’s deep brown eyes. Throughout the evening, he had been too angry with Rose to really think much about where he was. There was a moment’s silence as the actor stared expectantly at his guest, his lips curving into another gentle smile. Brian didn’t want to admit it, but he felt dwarfed by his company. Johnny was dashing, no doubt about it, and he himself wore sweatpants and no make-up. He looked like shit.

“I’m sorry…” he said after some time, his mouth feeling dry. “Why are we here?”

The actor shrugged. “I just saw an opportunity to get to know you, Mary-Lyn.”

_Why does he refuse to call me Manson? _Brian shook his head. “Why?”

“I’ve been listening to your music.” Without actually having to say it, Brian knew what he meant. It wasn’t just about the music. He had done a good job at pissing America off by being the living reflection of its two-faced society. On one side was the outward beauty; on the other side was the inward ugliness. But there was more to it. Johnny had seen what Brian wanted to do. What he wanted to _change_. At the same time, he was an artist too, and they were both actors playing their parts. Johnny could, however, take on and off faces as if they were masks. Marilyn Manson didn’t really have that opportunity, being a public persona, but it was still a character and not a person. Was he here so that Johnny could study him for a role? Dissect him? It was an uncomfortable thought. 

“You said you didn’t like ‘Antichrist Superstar’.”

“Well, that was a very childish statement of me to make. The simplified version, if you will,” Johnny said and brought the glass of wine to his lips, taking a sip. “The album, well, it was chaotic, fragmented, incoherent and sounded heavily dissonant. Anarchy, you know? But it got the point across, didn’t it? In that way, it reminded me of good old punk, which wasn’t what you were aiming for.” A thoughtful look crossed his face as he rolled the wine around in his mouth, cherishing the taste. The bottle hadn’t been inexpensive. “I do, however, appreciate the maturity of ‘Holy Wood’. That album really shows your skill and finesse.” He fixed the singer with an intense look that almost made him shudder. “Tight and on point. And completely misunderstood, as far as reviews go. 

Brian rolled his eyes and said, “I’m sure an enlightened man such as yourself knows everything about Columbine. That’s how ‘Holy Wood’ came to be.”

“Yes,” the older man said, his smile dying on his lips. “You took a bullet too. It made you think though – made you creative. Our feelings will always be the strongest source of inspiration, regardless of the art form, really.” 

_He’s been giving this a hell a lot of thought, hasn’t he? _The singer didn’t appreciate the sentiment. He suspected he had an agenda – everyone has an agenda, after all – and he knew he had to tread lightly.

“I’d still like to know why I’m here,” he declared, his voice taking on a cold edge. “Do you want to dissect me for a movie role?”

“… No.”

“Then what is going on-”

The legs of Johnny’s chair screeched against the tiled floor as he abruptly stood up, his expression unreadable, masked by that same smile. He wore it like a piece of armor, and Brian, who suddenly realized it was a way of guarding his thoughts and feelings, desperately wanted to know what he was thinking. He simply stood there, gripping the back of the chair while smiling pleasantly, and then, before Brian could ask, he disappeared into the kitchen. He heard the fridge being opened, and when the actor returned, he came carrying dessert on a tray. Tiramisu.

“We should have some cognac,” the singer pointed out. “And coffee.”

“Ah, I like where this is heading. And I’m one step ahead of you, Mer-lin.” Before the singer could add to the conversation, the actor had vanished once again. He felt like pinching the bridge of his nose, feeling awfully strange about the situation. Good thing he didn’t have anywhere to be. He was on ‘vacation’. The thought made him frown. If Johnny was actually a serial killer who wanted to murder him and use his skin to make a lamp shade, no one would report him missing anytime soon.

“Marilyn,” he corrected him once he returned from the kitchen. “Or Manson.”

“_Marilyn_,” Johnny said sweetly, his pronunciation flawless. He then walked over to where the frontman was seated, pouring him a small glass of cognac from over his shoulder. He was close enough for the singer to feel his warmth, and his soft, long hair touched his face, tickling him. In that moment, he, the Antichrist in the flesh, was at the mercy of his own confused emotions. His cheeks were burning scarlet and his heart was beating fast – too fast. When the actor removed himself from his side, he let out a breath of relief. Behind the intimidating public persona was still Brian Hugh Warner, as bashful and timid as the boy who had once attended Sunday school. He hated it, hated his skin.

“I thought I would enjoy your company,” Johnny said, still standing behind him. “And I was right.” 

“Why?” the singer asked, genuinely perplexed. 

Johnny sat down, trying the tiramisu. He hadn’t made it himself. For all that he loved to cook, baking wasn’t really his forte. The tiramisu was impeccable, with the perfect amount of cognac for an adult to enjoy, and it had the consistency of a mushy pudding and wasn’t sugary enough to inspire toothache. Brilliant.

“Do you know my work?”

“Yes,” Brian said, frowning. “I wasn’t born under a rock. Of course I’ve seen your movies, Depp. You aren’t fishing for compliments, are you?”

The movie star grinned. “No, not at all. What I was gonna say is that I started out as a musician. I started playing the guitar when I was twelve and kept at it for years, but ultimately, it didn’t pay the bills. Either way, music was my first love. It’ll always be my first love.” 

It took the singer a moment to process this. He could relate to the tale, seeing as music had never been his first choice. As a child, he had once played Jesus hanging on the cross in a school play and had developed severe stage fright. In all fairness, it wasn’t the role, it was the fact that some bully had stripped him of the towel he’d worn as a loincloth and had chased him naked down the corridor. He had, of course, vowed to never set foot on a stage again, but promises were made to be broken. During his first few live performances, he had needed to bring a bucket on stage, having puked his guts out. That was probably the most remarkable thing about those early gigs. Good thing he’d grown into his own skin as Marilyn Manson. It’d taken him about a decade to do so.

“You were in a band?”

“Rock City Angels.”

He tried to keep a straight face, to appear respectful, but the more he thought about that name, the more he seemed to lose his composure. Johnny saw and laughed a little at his own expense, showing him that he wasn’t entirely devoid of self-irony.

“Glamorous, isn’t it?”

The raven-haired man just smiled knowingly, remembering ‘and the Spooky Kids’ well enough not to laugh too hard. Young people with lofty ideals – and ideas – can be adorably stupid and over the top.

“I, um, I started out as a writer,” Brian began to say, his eyes suddenly drawn to the napkin that had been folded into a rose. When he lifted his gaze, it was only to shudder at the sight of those warm brown eyes. He cleared his throat and said, “Well, I moved to Fort Lauderdale after finishing high school. Guess I just wanted a way out of my old life. I was such a loser in high school, you know? I was everybody’s punching bag at school, the small, skinny kid who got pushed around and beat up, and I suppose I wanted to run away from it all, from Ohio. Wanted to carve out my own identity, and when I first came to Florida, I wanted to major in journalism. I wrote for some magazines. One was just the college newspaper, but the other, _25thParallel_, was mostly musical journalism.”

Johnny nodded, appearing intrigued, and asked, “That’s what inspired you to pursue music?"

“Yes and no,” the younger man said, averting his gaze. “None of the musicians I interviewed had anything to say. It was frustrating. Here they were, successful enough for people to give a damn about their opinions, but they had none.” He shook his head and started poking mirthlessly at the tiramisu, wishing it had been sweeter. Pitiful as it may be, he was addicted to sugar. “I realized that I had something to say, and I wanted to say it. I was also pissed off that writers don’t get the same attention as musicians, even if they’ve got a lot more to say than most musicians do.” 

“I can relate to those airhead musicians,” Johnny teased, his smile gentle. “Wasn’t really about being a role model. But it sure beats being a teen idol.” He rolled his eyes and let out an annoyed, “Yeesh.”

“You still play?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Can’t really stop. But I reached a point where I knew I’d never be a great guitarist, you know. I’m better at acting, even if I’m not as passionate about it as I am about the music.” He eyed Brian’s plate and saw that he hadn’t much liked the dessert. “The only thing I’m sad about is that I’m not an artist. The director? Maybe. The scriptwriter? Oh, definitely. But the actor? He’s just a tool. He is the paintbrush used by the artist to create a painting.” 

The frontman laughed. Johnny looked confused.

“That’s bullshit. If that’s true, I’m no artist either.”

“No?” 

“No. I hardly write any of my own songs. Jeordie’s the musical mastermind most of the time.” He grimaced upon saying this, almost feeling like it was some kind of dirty secret. “That’s the guy who threw up all over his shoes, by the way. And me?” He wrinkled his forehead. “I put on a show. I’m the voice of the band – the energy – the theatrical mastermind, if you will.” He glanced up from the uneaten tiramisu. “The face outward.” 

“Oh, definitely the face,” Johnny agreed, grinning. “Do you feel like an actor?”

“I guess.” Brian pushed the plate away and sipped at his cognac, relishing the rich taste. He hadn’t had cognac in ages, often opting for absinthe or vodka. “It’s like I’ve got two people” – he tapped his forehead – “living in here. One’s Brian Warner; one’s Marilyn Manson. Maybe it isn’t an act as much as an alter ego, but then again, the line between the two is blurry.”

“Either way,” Johnny said, raising a perfectly sculpted brow. “You’re the one orchestrating all these elements together. You’re the one with a clear vision. Now, forgive me if I’m wrong, but your bassist wouldn’t have known up from down if it wasn’t for you.”

Brian’s eyes darkened, and Johnny suspected he’d overstepped. 

“I guess,” he mumbled.

Johnny picked up his cognac, downed it and poured himself another glass, all within two seconds.

“You say that a lot, you know.”

“What?”

“You appear to be ‘guessing’ a lot.”

Brian sighed. He hadn’t really wanted to poke fun at his best friend for being a junkie. While he didn’t approve of the, well, what, debauched lifestyle? Escapism? Hedonism? Regardless of the definition, he knew him far too well to judge him for it, and had you known a thing or two about his childhood, you would’ve forgiven him for wanting to forget, too.

“Yeah, so?”

“I’m sorry, did I insult you?”

The raven-haired man said nothing, he just frowned, looking as unimpressed with humanity as ever, and Johnny, who now knew he’d definitely overstepped, was just as quiet. The silence bore on for more than a minute, souring the air, and it became obvious that Johnny was waiting for him to break it, to say something, anything, and he was patient, regarding him with a calm and gentle gaze, his eyes never straying from his. Brian didn’t like it, didn’t like it when people expected him to add something meaningful to the conversation. Besides, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to talk about this with someone he barely even knew. This stuff was… private. Very private. 

_Not that Jeordie would mind. He doesn’t know what private is. _

He turned stiffly in his chair before reaching for the bottle, slowly refilling his glass all the way to the brim; some of the golden liquid spilled over the side, soiling the tablecloth, but Johnny didn’t mind, he just stared, gaze unwavering. 

“… I just don’t know what to tell you,” the singer eventually said, drinking some more cognac, relishing the burn. “Jeordie’s had a rather eventful life – and I don’t mean that in a good way. His mom was a cage dancer. Doesn’t even know his dad. He pisses me off, sure, but with a childhood like that… of course you aren’t going to be ‘normal’.” He stopped talking for a moment, watching the pitying, no, the downright sad expression on the actor’s face. Something dawned on him. Johnny had lived a similar life, and he’d been dirt poor. 

“… And fame and drugs will only make things a hell a lot worse,” he finished lamely, feeling almost guilty.

“I suspect you’re right,” Johnny said, his voice soft. “Now, before this conversation gets too sad and dreary, let’s go back to the living room. I’m in the mood for some red wine.” He grinned at the singer. “You can choose the bottle.”

Brian huffed. “I don’t really know up from down when it comes to wine.” 

Johnny shrugged, unconcerned. “With my selection, I don’t think you could go very wrong. They’re all quite exquisite. Just go by whatever label tickles you fancy.”

* * *

The living room was large and had its own bar. It was a beach house, but the style had nothing to do with the beach whatsoever. The interior was dark and old-fashioned, and it reminded the singer of brown bars with names such as ‘The White Lion’ and ‘The Drunken Duck’ he had visited in England. When Johnny returned with a well-worn copy of ‘The Doors’, meaning the self-titled album, Brian smiled approvingly and got up from the Chesterfield, the leather groaning as he moved, and walked over to the bar, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. Johnny said, “Pour me a glass of that fine stuff, will you, Marilyn,” and put the needle on the record.

“Here,” the singer murmured, handing Johnny the glass. Their fingers brushed together, skin against skin, causing Johnny to freeze for a split second before swiftly regaining his composure.

“… Thank you very much,” he murmured before bringing the glass to his lips. The sound of Jim Morrison’s voice then filled the room, and Johnny, who had already had his fair share of shots, started dancing. Brian laughed at the sight, which, in spite of being an unexpected turn of events, wasn’t particularly comical to behold. Johnny was putting on a show for the sake of entertainment, of course he was, but it wasn’t funny. No, if anything, it was arousing. Johnny was graceful yet strong, light on his feet and carried himself with an air of confidence. He was a gorgeous man. Brian, who had a hard time not leering, was thrilled by the flood of intoxicating, strange feelings that surged through his body. It wasn’t that he was particularly attracted to the actor, not at all, but it _was_Johnny Depp. You didn’t need to be very gay to find him enjoyable to watch, and no, he wasn’t ashamed.

“Dance with me, Marilyn,” the actor demanded. Brian noticed that his speech was beginning to slur – and he kept saying his name. 

“No-no.” He laughed, shaking his head. “I can’t dance.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, darling.” The older man held his hand out, signaling for him to come closer. When the singer still refused, Johnny rolled his eyes and sat down on the couch, apparently uninterested in dancing all by himself. Brian, who was slightly less inebriated, was beginning to wonder what was going through the other man’s head.

_Why am I here? _he asked himself a second time. _How did he even get my number? _He hadn’t thought of that until now. But he supposed Johnny was used to getting things his way. 

“To Jim Morrison.” Johnny held the glass in a slightly tipsy toast, his eyes gleaming. “And to us, and to a glorious friendship.”

Brian nodded and drank some more whiskey. He was still standing next to the record player, listening to the songs he had grown up with. That was the beauty of music. A song could forever be tied to a memory – but it wasn’t set in stone. New memories could always change a song’s personal meaning. Next time he listened to the ‘The Doors’album, he would think of Johnny Depp’s beach house. Well, to be fair, he would be thinking of Johnny Depp and how he had declined dancing with him. The singer nibbled on his lower lip, staring at the chiseled, tanned face of his new _friend _while considering what to say.

“Do my make-up, Marilyn,” Johnny said bluntly and then emptied his glass.

“What?"

“My make-up,” Johnny repeated, now grinning.

“I haven’t even done my own make-up today,” the singer mumbled, once again feeling plain. Strange how some white foundation and red lipstick could make him feel complete. It was also strange how the lack of hard drugs made him less confident. He felt so uneasy. 

The actor raised a brow, saying, “I’ll do you if you do me.” 

“Interesting proposal, Depp,” he retorted, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

The actor shrugged and said, “Come on, Marilyn. Be a good sport.”

“What, you just happen to have make-up lying around?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Johnny flashed a mischievous look at him, and he was smiling with a kind of self-assured ease Brian wasn’t used to seeing. “I’ve been an actor for a while, you know.”

“Fine,” he groaned, caving in. “I’ll do your damn make-up.” 

“Splendid!”

Johnny ushered him down the hallway and into what could only be the master bedroom. He dragged the younger man inside, and on the short walk from the bedroom to the adjoining bathroom, Brian allowed his eyes to drink everything in. A four-poster bed with a white canopy stood in one corner, the bedclothes rumpled as if no one had changed them in too long, and a table stood beside it. A full ashtray, packs of cigarettes and empty beer bottles littered its surface, and he swore he could see some crumpled-up tissues, too. Torn between amusement and disgust, he coughed, barely concealing a laugh. 

“What?” Johnny asked, opening the bathroom door. For a moment, the singer hesitated. If the bedroom looked like ‘Fat Man’ had landed there, what would the bathroom look like? He quickly shook the thought off, having lived through worse conditions many a time before, and said, “You need a housekeeper,” without blushing like an idiot.

“What man doesn’t?”

_Well. _Brian nibbled on his bottom lip, frowning. _I sure as hell don’t. But I may need one after hurricane Rose finished ravaging my fucking house. _

Contrary to the bedroom, the bathroom was spotless, without even a speck of dust on the shelves. There were, however, no signs whatsoever that a woman also lived there, no hairs in the sink most notably, and no expensive hair or skin products, and he wondered if Johnny had taken some time away from his family, which struck him as a little bit odd. Johnny was a self-proclaimed family man, completely unable to shut up about his ‘kiddie’, so it seemed unlikely that he would want to be separated from her. But hey, who was he to judge? He knew nothing about being a father.

“It’s supposed to be here somewhere…” Johnny was rummaging through the drawers in search of the rumored make-up. After several minutes of searching, he pulled out a black wooden box with some fancy and unreadable cursive letters he couldn’t decipher scribbled on the label. Brian frowned deeply when the actor started rattling it as though it was a Christmas present and he was five years old.

“… I don’t think that’s very good for the make-up, Johnny.”

“Hm? Oh, it isn’t make-up.”

“No?”

He shrugged and put the box down on the tiled floor. Brian reread the label a couple of times, and as soon as the words made sense, he laughed. It said ‘secrets of the flesh’. He could only imagine, but he supposed he shouldn’t.

“Oh! Here it is,” he declared enthusiastically and handed him a red vanity bag that said ‘warpaint’. It contained several sticks of greasepaint, some brushes that had been manhandled at some point and were rendered useless and, much to Brian’s relief, a bottle of white liquid foundation.

“I don’t suppose you have any make-up sponges or brushes?”

“… Oh, didn’t think of that.” He picked up one of the broken brushes and picked at the frizzled hairs. “These babies won’t get the job done?" 

The singer chuckled. “No. They’re trash.”

“Hmm.” Johnny looked disappointed, pulling at the hairs of the brush. They came off in clumps, testifying to how they’d been maltreated. However, as he looked up and locked eyes with the singer, a dangerous gleam appeared in his eyes. He was grinning from one ear to the other. Brian thought he could see the outline of a lightbulb hovering above his head. 

“Use your fingers then,” he suggested, his voice cheery. Brian wasn’t sure whether he was kidding or not, but he knew that, based on how he wasn’t slurring his words, Johnny had sobered up a bit from before. He was about to protest, however, considering where they were and what he had been asked to do, he seriously doubted that the older man would take no for an answer. Sighing, he said, “Alright,” and plopped down on the floor. Johnny followed his example.

“Like I do mine?”

“Whatever you want, Marilyn.” 

“Cheeky.”

The singer flipped the cap of the bottle containing foundation and squirted some into his hand. Johnny was watching him with curiosity sparkling in his brown eyes, and Brian smiled, pressing his forefinger and middle finger to Johnny’s cheekbone. The make-up was silky smooth. He figured that he’d only have to apply one light coat of the stuff. Johnny had closed his eyes for him, but he was still smiling, looking as though he was enjoying himself thoroughly.

“Do my eyes next.”

“Hey,” Brian mumbled. “You’re not the boss of me. I’ll do whatever I want.”

“_Please_, Marilyn.” 

Feeling oddly amiable, Brian pulled out a blue stick of greasepaint and covered his forehead and eyes with the stuff. The style greatly resembled one of his iconic looks from the ‘Mechanical Animals’ album, or the ‘titty one’, like Johnny had dubbed it. But the make-up didn’t really look ghastly or otherworldly on Johnny. For some ineffable reason, he could pull off any look, and he did it with ease. Brian guessed it had something to do with features that looked like perfection carved from stone. He had an irrational fear that he could cut his fingers on that jawline.

“Lips,” Johnny almost grunted. “Now.”

“Didn’t know you were such an authoritarian despot.”

“Didn’t know your fingers could feel so good.”

_Wait, what? _Brian was very glad he wasn’t drinking something. If he had been drinking something, he would have choked and spluttered like a moron. _He’s just drunk_, he reminded himself. _Worse than Jeordie on a bad day. _Only it wasn’t really true.

He searched the red vanity bag for a suitable ‘lipstick’ and went for an appropriate shade of reddish orange, which would contrast nicely with the blue. The actor did, of course, lack the red hair he had sported on the album cover – and for the entirety of the following tour. It had been a nightmare dying it every other week. He had eventually given up on doing it himself and had wasted so much time at various hairdressers. Black was definitely his color, but a little bit of red on the lips couldn’t hurt. Red was blood; red was sex; red was passion. If he had to choose a color, it would have to be red.

“No,” Johnny said when Brian neared his lips with the red stick of greasepaint. “Fingers.”

For a moment, the singer hesitated. What on earth was going through the other man’s head? He had no idea.

“The stick is nasty,” the actor elaborated, having noticed his hesitation. “Feels like a crayon. Not nice.”

_Yeah, right. _Brian rolled his eyes and smeared some of the greasepaint on his forefinger. Alright, it did feel a little bit rough, he would give him that. Johnny had closed his eyes again, the ghost of a smile grazing his lips as he waited for the sensation of Brian’s touch. The singer felt odd pressing his finger against the warm, full lips, almost startled as he parted his lips slightly, making the job easier. But when he felt warm, sticky saliva on his fingertip, he shuddered and quickly withdrew his hand. 

“Done,” the younger man said hoarsely, clearing his throat. “All done.”

“We have to put some make-up on your face as well,” Johnny said, blinking his eyes open. Brian just shook his head.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’d just have to take it off again – and it didn’t really feel nice. Was it for a role?”

He shook his head. “Nah. Halloween, come to think of it.”

“Oh, I see…” He was reduced to silence for a moment as Johnny got up from the floor, studying his reflection in the mirror. The handsome face couldn’t be concealed by make-up, and as he stared at himself, his eyes darkened with some undefinable emotion. His gaze shifted from the mirror to the singer, his dark eyes cornering him.

“I look like you,” he said softly, smiling. He then grabbed Brian’s right hand and yanked him to his feet, wrapping a strong arm around him. 

“What-”

“Like I said,” Johnny mumbled. “You do me; I do you.”

Before the singer could respond, Johnny pressed a kiss to his lips. It lasted no longer than a second and tasted like whiskey and greasepaint, which didn’t really taste good at all. When it ended, the actor put a hand on the younger man’s cheek and forced him to look in the mirror. Well, he could definitely tell he’d been kissed. A small dot of reddish orange stained his lower lip. What bothered him more than the ‘lipstick’ and the kiss was that Johnny was holding him, his hand resting on his cheek. 

“… Um, what are you-”

“Oh, and by the way, you never told me how we first met,” the actor interrupted him, his fingers suddenly tracing the scarred flesh of his forearm. “I feel like I would’ve recognized Mr. Manson anywhere, you know?”

He pulled away, aware that the man was drunk. He wasn’t stupid though. Depp found him fascinating and had decided to cure his boredom by befriending him. In need of a mysterious freak to keep one entertained? That’d be him. 

“I wasn’t really Marilyn Manson back then.” 

“You were _just _Brian?”

“Something like that.”

“… I should go to bed,” Johnny said out of the blue, frowning at his wristwatch. It wasn’t terribly late, not by rockstar standards anyhow, but then again, Johnny was a family man. “I’ll drive you home in the morning, Marilyn. I need to get back to my kiddie quite early, you see.”

“Sure.”

He was led to the guest bedroom and then left to his own devices. For the longest time, he just sat on the bed, staring at the closed door and wondering what the heck had just happened. 

_I would’ve been better off staying at the murder house with Rose. _He kicked off his shoes and slid under the thin duvet, more than ready for the sandman to come. _But he seems nice enough, doesn’t he? Just a little eccentric. A goofball, really. _He then surprised himself by giggling into the pillow. Fifteen minutes earlier, he had been kissed by Johnny Depp. All the little women of the world would have strangled him for that opportunity. He had to remind himself that it wasn’t really a big deal. When he was on tour, he kissed Jeordie more than he kissed girls. Heck, he even received more blowjobs from him than from anyone else. Rose hadn’t liked doing it, after all. Strange thing she hadn’t accused him of cheating with Jeordie. It wasn’t about love though. The music – the performance – gave them an adrenaline kick that made itself known through violence and sexual acts. Rose had never commented on it, just on the imaginary girls she assumed he had slept with. Not that he had always been faithful, but neither had she.

_I don’t need to think about that witch anymore though, _he thought to himself. With that pleasant thought in mind, he fell asleep, drifting off to his own la-la land.


	3. Fags, Faggots and Maggots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really loved writing this chapter. Stuff happens... and just consider, why's Johnny behaving the way he is? 
> 
> Comments are appreciated <3

October 20, 2000

Los Angeles, California

Brian stuck the cocktail cherry in his mouth, pulling off the stem. On the opposite side of the table, Johnny was smoking a cigarette, his face bathed in shades of pink and yellow and green from the bright neon lights of the club; they followed the rhythm of the music, a steady ‘oomph, oomph’ interrupted only by loud shrieks or bouts of laughter coming from the dancefloor. The clientele mainly consisted of celebrities who wanted to be anonymous as they danced themselves silly, their bodies fueled by an excess of alcohol and drugs. Johnny and Brian were, on the other hand, sitting in a shadowy corner of the room, separated from the main space by a glass wall. It didn’t obscure their faces but suffocated some of the noise, and it was really fucking noisy in there.

“The drink,” Johnny said, nodding at the now empty cocktail glass in front of the singer. 

“What about it?” 

A toothy smile lit up on his undeniably handsome face, a sinful little smile that somehow incorporated just the right amount of shyness, the sort that could’ve made anyone weak in the knees – but Brian wasn’t just anyone, yet his heart started speeding up, going 200 mph, and he mentally kicked himself for it.

Johnny giggled, eyes shining with mirth. 

“It’s a bit silly, I must confess…”

“Hey, can’t say A without saying B, Depp. Not fair.”

They locked in a stare, and _holy smoke, _his eyes were pools of syrupy chocolate. The corners of his mouth twitched. 

“Come on, indulge me.”

“Very well. It’s called ‘Pop the Cherry.”

_Well, that’s anticlimactic. _Brian rolled his eyes, concluding that it’d been a lame joke and that Johnny’s sense of humor was… an acquired taste. He wasn’t looking smug about the name though, no, he just watched him, face revealing nothing apart from shy, faultless sincerity. But then again, sin is sincere. 

“Clever.” 

“I thought so as well.”

“And did they name it after you?”

Another shy smile.

“Not to my knowledge, no. I was just twelve, so I’m not sure how appropriate that’d be.”

“I know.”

Brian looked over at the bar, at the bartender, but it was too dark and she didn’t notice.

“I’ll order us some drinks,” Johnny volunteered. “Something with absinthe?”

The singer leaned closer across the table, his eyes burning black.

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Depp?” he asked, purred, his voice low and baritone and dripping with just enough sarcasm to make it a joke. “Or are you trying to get into my pants?”

Even under the harsh lights, Brian saw that tiny, secretive smile spreading across his face. Then he looked down at his hands, at the many rings he was wearing, and said, “Something like that.” It meant he wasn’t really drunk yet, only mildly intoxicated, and while Brian would honestly prefer to keep it that way, not wanting to end up taking something he shouldn’t be taking, reintroducing drugs to his system, he knew Johnny was a different story altogether. When in LA, he wanted to party hard. He’d tried dragging the singer along more than once that week, but this was the first time he’d been successful. Brian almost regretted it.

“Heeeello!” 

Their eyes shot up simultaneously. A woman wearing a white uniform, dangerously short shorts and a crop top in faux leather, which made for a cool visual effect as the neon lights were reflected in the fabric, came up to them and smiled politely, her face covered in harsh make-up. She pointed at the name tag on her uniform, reading ‘ask Alice’, and then, as she saw who she was in fact talking to, namely Johnny Depp, she froze and nearly lost her grip on the tray she was carrying. But being a professional, she quickly regained her posture, her smile widening, showing off her pearly whites. 

“Drinks, boys?”

“One Green God,” the singer said, smiling back at her. “Mr. Depp here wants to pop his cherry.”

A furrow appeared between her pencil-thin, drawn eyebrows.

“Um, I beg your pardon, sir?” 

Brian immediately understood where Johnny’d been going with that lame joke. Their eyes locked. Whereas the actor feigned innocence, a sweet, innocent smile clinging to his face, the singer looked like he wanted to skin him alive. 

_‘Pop the Cherry’ my ass. So fucking funny, Depp. _

“He wants a _dry _Martini,” he said with a bite, knowing the actor would hate it. He’d told him as much a couple of months ago, something about James Bond having given the drink an unearned, undeserved reputation, seeing as it actually tastes like, well, crap. Still, he didn’t protest, just winced, aware he’d have to drink the foul stuff and hate every drop of it. Brian smiled wryly at that, feeling victorious. 

“Good, good,” she said, writing it down. “I’ll be right back.” 

She left. Johnny laughed.

“I’m not that easily fazed, you know.”

“You’re blushing.” 

“I’m wearing concealer. 

Johnny’s eyes gleamed dangerously.

“Ah, yes,” he drawled. “You appear to be wearing quite a bit of make-up today.”

The singer arched one brow, equal parts curious and annoyed.

“And this is relevant how?”

He shrugged, saying, “Merely an observation,” as if there’d been no implication lacing those words. _You sly fucking bastard, Depp, _the raven-haired man thought, his slim fingers curling around the stem of his empty glass.

“Do you have a point you’d like to make, Mr. Depp?”

“Ah, perhaps.” A soft smile. “You don’t like being recognized. You never wear make-up in public – not these days anyhow. But tonight?” He wrinkled his forehead and put out his cigarette, grounding the stub into the ashtray. No sooner had he done that than he fished out his standard pack of _Gitanes_. Brian offered his poor lungs a fleeting thought of pity, one he was quick to discard. If he wanted to treat his lungs like a chimney, so be it.

“Hmm.”

“Can’t quite wrap my head around it, Marilyn. Did you doll up for me?” he asked teasingly as he placed the fag between his lips and began fumbling for his lighter. “I like you just as well without your mask, you know.”

Again, he blurred the line between humor and seriousness. There was an almost bitter ring to it. 

_Well, fuck you too, _the singer thought, ticked off. 

“Just in case it somehow escaped your notice,” he muttered, eyes flashing, “we’re at a club. Like most people, I like to look my best before going out to greet the world, especially at a place where I’m bound to get recognized, with or without fucking make-up.” He snorted, averting his gaze. “I don’t want to seem defeated.” 

“I was kidding, Marilyn.” Johnny’s eyes were suddenly darker, a soft black color. “Interesting though. People rarely get all worked up and flustered unless you’ve hit too close to home.”

“’These days’,” the raven-haired man quoted, voice dripping with rancor. “You said ‘these days’ – so you already know, don’t you? Quit being a dickhead, Depp. Doesn’t suit you.” When the actor broke into a smile, one of those ‘I-can-do-no-wrong’ smiles that made his heart skip a beat, momentarily forgetting that he was heterosexual through and through, and that he was sort of angry, he sighed, wondering why Johnny was pushing his luck. He had a really short fuse ‘these days’ and everyone knew it. Sure, he didn’t appreciate how Jeordie and his mother and everyone else tiptoed around him, pretending he was a kid with Asperger’s who’d break if they let him, but being so blunt was just as bad. Couldn’t they just pretend everything was back to fucking normal? Jeez.

… But then again, maybe Johnny’d been referring to something else. Maybe no one but Brian was obsessing over it, over the massacre and, in the end, the defamation.

“Columbine,” he added for clarification, voice dropping to a harsh whisper. Johnny nodded. He’d gone through something similar, though not as sensationalized, when River Phoenix had died outside his nightclub. When your reputation is dragged through the dirt like that, you’re suddenly prone to bouts of paranoia. Entitled to them, too.

“Are you scared, Marilyn?”

He drew in a deep breath, eyes tracing Johnny’s collarbone, several buttons of his black shirt unbuttoned. Then he blinked.

“… Of what?”

“People hurting you?”

He froze, trying to process the question.

_All people do is fucking hurt me. You’re a piece of work, Depp. _

“Hurting me?” 

A curt nod of the head.

“Shoot you dead, stab you, assault you-”

“If they hurt me,” he muttered darkly, eyes suddenly glowing with some kind of anger, “they only hurt themselves. I’m just the messenger.” 

“Marilyn.” Johnny exhaled a cloud of bluish smoke, eyes pinning him to the wall. “Are you _scared_?”

“What – am I _scared_?” He gave a rough laugh, sounding a bit like a jackal, mirthlessly menacing and just a tad crazy. “That’s besides the fucking point, alright? Of course I get nervous – I don’t particularly want to be up on that stage right now – you know what happened to Lennon, right? And the guy was a ‘fan’. He even made it to a Bowie concert before that and was about to pull the damn trigger. I am very fucking aware of that risk. But I don’t want to let them silence me. Then I’d rather play target and bleed out on that stage. It’s where I belong anyways.”

The older man looked at him for a two long seconds, searching his eyes for traces of something. When he couldn’t find it, he cleared his throat and looked away, clearly upset on his behalf. 

“You don’t belong in a pool of blood.”

“Well, depends on who you’re asking. I reckon that most of the creationists in this country want me dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“I don’t particularly like or respect people who believe the Earth is 4000 years old.” He waved the pack of _Gitanes _in front of his face. “Fag?”

“No, I don’t like my lungs black and charred, and mind your own business, won’t you?” Brian grumbled, feeling venomous. He didn’t want to be babied, pitied or victimized; he just wanted to move the fuck on from the bloody mess – Columbine – and all the negative attention. “So, don’t worry about me, alright? If I die, it’ll be easier on me than whoever’s left to grieve me. But I’m not even engaged anymore and I don’t have kids, as far as I know anyways, and my death wouldn’t really be a catastrophe. Maybe to one or two of my hardcore fans, but they’re just waiting for the next big thing anyways, the next trend, the next me.”

Johnny shook his head at the, hmm, very pessimistic outlook on life. Who the heck had managed to convince him that he was disposable? A piece of trash?

“Hogwash! And, well, we’ll just have to make sure security’s tight. No one with ill intentions will get in. Pat them down, all of them, and there won’t be a problem.” He arched a brow. “No bullets, no blood and no dying.” 

Brian opened his mouth to say something, then he paused, expression hovering between a smirk and a grimace.

“D’you take me for an idiot, Depp?” 

“Not an idiot, no,” the actor said, voice tender. “Just an asshole.”

“I’ve got a security team. We’re working on all the stupid little details and everything will be sorted out by the time we hit the road. Now get off my back, will you? I don’t want to talk about Columbine anymore; I’m sick of Columbine, and I’m sick of hearing my name in relation to something that had nothing to do with me, even if it could kill me – _ignorance _could kill me! The fucking president can bomb the shit out of some dirt-poor country in the Middle East and at the same time be hailed as a hero – and yet I’m the big, bad wolf, and for fucking what? Writing some songs? Fuck this country. Fuck its ‘raised to be stupid’ hypocritical Christian maggots.”

“… Here you go, boys,” the girl in the white uniform said, voice slightly high-pitched. She’d caught herself an uncomfortable earful and quickly put the drinks down, removed the empty glasses and smiled timidly at them as they thanked her. Then she made herself scarce.

Johnny had the decency not to laugh, but he smiled nonetheless, amused.

“That anger,” he said, putting his hand on top of his on the table, “has to go somewhere.” For two strangely long seconds, Brian felt his mouth go dry as he stared at their hands, one visibly darker than the other, even under the neon lights. And the warmth of it, the comfort of it, was too much too soon. When Johnny gave a light squeeze of support, his heart couldn’t decide whether it should flee through his throat or beat so fast it’d fucking explode. 

“I, ah, I don’t mean to pry or to be imprudent, but… I don’t think it’s good to let it build up like that. In the end, you’ll just go bonkers. I would know. I’ve hit my fair share of people and regretted it.” 

“I…” He faltered. Johnny’s thumb stroked his skin, and the warmth somehow persisted, clung to him. 

_… What the hell? _

He held his breath, wondering if this was normal. 

“You still won’t be persuaded to dance with me?”

He almost choked on a lungful of air, coughing.

“No,” he croaked, throat acutely dry. “And are you stupid? This isn’t even music. If you can somehow persuade them to play some Jim Morrison, I might feel more inclined to accept your…” He arched a non-existent brow at him, his lips curving, revealing teeth. “Proposal.” 

Johnny smiled and sipped at the Martini, grimaced and subsequently suppressed the urge to gag. Yikes.

“Really? I know the owner, by the way.”

“You could’ve known Clinton and they still wouldn’t have played The Doors at this… fine establishment.”

The singer knew they wouldn’t stop playing that horrible ‘oomph, oomph’ music. It’d be bad for business, after all, and besides, he never would’ve actually danced in public, not in a million fucking years. Looking over at the tangled mass of sweaty bodies, half-naked, horny and intoxicated beyond belief, dancing to that crappy music, wasn’t just off-putting, it was nightmarish. Sure, he’d danced with his girlfriend when he had to, something he’d always dreaded because he wasn’t very good at dancing but very good at stepping on toes, but then again, they had been his _girlfriends. _Johnny didn’t qualify. Handsome or not, he was a man, a very married man with a very real wife – and a kid.

… And he was holding his hand.

_This isn’t right. Jesus, what’s on your mind, Depp? _Probably another silly, inane joke. The singer withdrew his hand, the movement jerky and, to some extent, panicked, and quickly got up from the booth, saying, “I, eh, I need to take a leak.”

“Ah.”

On his way to the bathroom, he felt Johnny’s kind but intense eyes drilling holes in the back of his skull, picking at his brain. He’d never liked being analyzed, not on a personal level, and he didn’t like how Johnny could see through him as if he were nothing but water running down the drain, transparent. He’d never met such a, well, intuitive wasn’t the right word, but sometimes he could just sense things. Sure, he could be denser than Sid Vicious sometimes, oblivious even, but other times, like right now, he saw what was eating away at him. 

_The tour_, his brain supplied unhelpfully. Unkindly. _Being on that stage again. Worrying that someone will put a bullet in me. _

The hallway leading to the bathrooms was uncannily dark. Two men emerged from a corner; one of them treated him to an icy stare, and he thought he heard him say ‘faggot’ over the loud ‘oomph, oomph’ of the music that was still pouring endlessly from the speakers. Not paying them any heed, he hurried toward the same corner and saw red neon lights. There were two doors with stylized pictures on them: one depicted a dick and the other a vagina. He went inside and was surprised to find that he was alone in the room. But that was just as well. If there was one time he didn’t want to run into a fan, it was while taking a piss.

He unbuckled his pants in front of the urinal and did the deed in relative peace. The music wasn’t as loud in there and he could actually hear himself thinking, which felt serene. But it didn’t last. The door flew open, hitting the wall with a loud bang, and surprise, surprise, the guy who’d called him ‘faggot’ waltzed inside, looking drunk as he swayed around like a flagpole on a windy day. Then he seemed to pull himself together, his eyes drinking in the sight of the singer, of the leather pants and mesh top and make-up.

“I know who you are,” the man said, slurring only slightly.

“Really? I don’t know who the fuck you are.”

The man, who was bald, possibly of Italian heritage and in his early thirties, smiled and walked up to him, watching him as he peed. It was unnerving and he finished in a second, zipping up his fly.

“Shouldn’t you be in the girl’s bathroom?”

He rolled his eyes. Didn’t dignify the jackass with a response.

The guy came up behind him.

“It’s Marilyn, isn’t it?”

“You better leave me the fuck alone, man,” the singer told him in a calm but stern voice, one that said ‘one misstep and you’re fucked’, all the while holding him firmly in his gaze, not letting go, knowing that coming across as intimidating was all he could hope for. But the man grinned at him, pretended to be jovial, but there was something dark in his eyes, something that spelled out ‘violent maniac – beware’, and Brian was extremely wary of him. He felt like he didn’t have the best of intentions.

“Aw,” he cooed teasingly. “Or what?”

Brian took a step closer to the little rat, who was almost a head shorter than him. He more or less towered over him, but he showed no signs of fear. And if he ran out of there, maybe the other guy would be waiting for him outside? That hallway had been dark and long, and the music was loud, really loud. If he yelled, no one would hear. 

“What the hell is your problem?” he demanded. “You don’t want to mess with someone like me. It’ll get you in trouble.”

The guy shrugged, a sign of surrender, and went over to the urinal to go about his business. For a second, the singer felt relieved. But then he remembered the second guy. He glanced at the door, then at the bald man.

“Are you staring at my dick, faggot?” the man asked, voice caught between amusement and something else, something mean, and the elusive threat immediately soured the air, charging it. Something was bound to happen, Brian knew as much, but what? He needed to get away before things could escalate.

“I said,” the man demanded, all humor gone, “are you staring at my fucking dick?”

“I don’t see one.”

“Watch it.” The man glared at him, though with the tiniest smile tugging at his mouth. “I could make you feel it. That’d shut you up.”

If he’d been less terrified, he’d roll his eyes at the comment. But he was terrified. 

“Scared, are you?” A self-satisfied smirk slid onto his thin, angular face. “You should be.”

He decided to make a run for it. It was either being assaulted here or in the hallway – it didn’t actually matter – but just staying put? No fucking way. He wasn’t going to let anything happen without a fight. But when he tried to walk past the man, he spun around like a fucking ninja, launching at him, and he was suddenly slammed up against the wall, the man’s forearm squeezing at his throat. Something sharp poked at his abdomen, a knife, and he couldn’t help but to whimper. In his twenties, he’d seen his fair share of crime – being dirt poor in Fort Lauderdale hadn’t always been easy – but this? This scared the shit out of him. 

“I will cut you if you scream, pretty boy.”

“The hell do you want?” he demanded, though his voice betrayed him, cracking.

“Money.”

“Well, tough luck!” Brian sneered. “I left my wallet with my friend.”

“I see, but I’m not entirely unreasonable,” the man said, their faces so close he could smell the cigarettes and beer on his breath, absolutely disgusting, and he grinned, lips parting to reveal teeth that were more brown than white, stained and rotten. “I believe we can come to an agreement. You’ll just hand me your valuables and-”

“Hey, hands off him!” someone yelled from the doorway, interrupting them, and just then a pair of hands grabbed the man’s shoulders and, using brute strength, dragged him backwards, nearly pushing him over. Shocked, the baldheaded man gave a loud, “The fuck!?” and flailed his arms around like a frightened chicken, clumsily trying to slice his attacker with the knife. He expertly avoided the blade and slammed the greaseball’s hairless head into the sink, resulting in a nauseating crack and a loud howl as he fell to the floor, the knife skidding across the tiles until it disappeared under the urinal. 

Brian, who’d lost his balance, staggered to his feet and, as he drank in the sight before him, felt the color draining from his face. His knight in shining armor? Johnny. Of course it was Johnny, Johnny who wasn’t scared of landing a punch. His assailant scrambled to his feet, a curtain of blood covering half his face, eyes focused on the actor, and when he recognized him, t_he_Johnny Depp in the flesh, his eyes widened and he started stammering, “I-I…”

“You what?” Johnny spat, flaying the man with his gaze. “You just wanted to screw with my friend?”

Then, as the brunet raised his right hand, showing off his brass knuckles, the man narrowed his eyes, his mind racing. With practiced ease, the little rat reached for something in his jeans, possibly a pocketknife, but Johnny – white trash through and through – was quicker; with a brutal right hook, left hook combination to the head, he more or less pulverized the man’s face. Blood gushed from his nose and lip, and the screams that tore from his throat were animalistic, like a pig about to be slaughtered. Brian watched in something like awe, eyes glued to Johnny’s brass knuckles. They were coated in dark red. 

“Not so funny anymore, is it, buddy?”

The man brought a hand to his face, his wounds, immediately flinching. Johnny smiled – no, he sneered – and raised his hand anew. Brian felt sick to his stomach; strictly speaking, he didn’t need to deliver another hard blow. But Johnny hadn’t ever been good at impulse control, and with the sound of bone crunching, the brass knuckles scraped against his left cheekbone. The man bellowed and fell back, hitting the ground for a second time. One kick, two kicks, three kicks to his abdomen – and another three screams. Johnny, though somewhat small and petite for a man, loomed over the bloody, beaten figure who tried shielding his face with his hands. The look on his face was murderous, eyes blacker than charcoal yet with something burning in their pits, something dangerous. He looked so threatening that the devil himself would’ve cowered in fear, and this man was no devil. He was, in fact, just a grown man sobbing on the bathroom floor, blood streaking down his face and neck.

“Or maybe you like it rough, hmm?” He spat at him. “You want it badly, don’t you, you sick little worm?”

“No!” The man shook his head in desperation. “N-no, please.”

Johnny took a step closer.

“S-s-stop,” the man stammered, begged, his body shaking like an old washing machine. His crushed cheek and nose made him look like something from a low budget splatter movie, and the sheer amount of blood gushing from his mouth and nostrils didn’t seem real, curtesy of the brass knuckles. The singer even saw thick chunks of skin hanging off the large gash on his nose. It was violently graphic. Brian hadn’t ever seen anything like it, not in real life, and in spite of what had almost happened, he pitied the man. He’d been beaten to a bloody pulp – literally – and would bear Johnny’s mark on him for the rest of his life. Those scars wouldn’t be pretty. 

“… Johnny,” Brian said quietly once he’d found his voice, and the actor stiffened, having all but forgotten that he wasn’t alone with the creep. “I… I think that’s enough. Being charged with murder isn’t a good way to end the evening.”

The brunet closed his eyes for a second. When he reopened them, he looked directly at the singer, something stirring in the depths of his eyes, something vulnerable.

“He almost assaulted you,” he stated, sounding shocked at his own words. “If I hadn’t…”

“I know.” He bit down on his lip. “Jesus Christ, I know.”

The man kept on sobbing. Johnny curled his lip in disgust, letting out a low grunt as he kneeled down beside him, searching him. He eventually found the pocketknife the man had been reaching for, effectively disarming him. Then he leaned forward so that his mouth was very close to his ear, telling him one word, “Filth,” before giving him a clap on the shoulder, a mocking gesture that, under different circumstances, could’ve been mistaken for comradery. 

Brian embraced himself, feeling cold all of a sudden. His stomach lurched and he heaved, slapping a hand over his mouth and swallowing hard. Johnny was staring at his cellphone, probably debating whether or not he should call someone, namely 911. The guy looked like a wild elephant had trampled him down.

_Holy fuck_, Brian thought. _Holy. Fuck. _

_… What just happened?_

He let out a harsh breath, his heart still beating too fast. The after-effect of the adrenaline made his limbs feel boneless, weak, and while his platform boots had always been heavy and chunky, they now felt like chains around his ankles. He forced his legs to obey him nonetheless, walking unsteadily over to where Johnny was standing, eyes glazed over and unfocused as he stared down at the crying man, the man who’d threatened his friend, and who’d mistakenly thought he’d get away with it, as if preying on Marilyn Manson was fucking okay. His hands were still balled into tight fists at his sides, and strands of brown fell into his eyes and around his face, making him look like a madman. 

“… Let’s go,” the raven-haired man said, urged, and it wasn’t a suggestion.

“Yeah.” Johnny removed the brass knuckles, stashing them in his pocket. “Yeah.”

He then turned around to face his friend, to make sure he was fine. He looked unharmed, if a little shaken up and quiet, and Johnny felt a wave of relief washing over him, putting out the anger that had spread like wildfire through his veins. An unconvincing smile grazed his lips, one that was meant to be reassuring, and Brian tried to smile back, tried and failed. Instead, he grimaced. This could’ve ended badly, badly because he couldn’t raise his fists and fight back. No, he’d been paralyzed. And yeah, he was thankful, so fucking thankful that Johnny had barged in and given the guy the beating of his life. But at the same time, it pissed him off. How could he be so weak?

_Fight, flight… or freeze. _

_Pathetic, _he told himself, critical of his own inability to act. _You’re pathetic. _

“Marilyn,” Johnny said, making his every thought come to a screeching halt. Their eyes met, and the singer saw that there were splotches of blood the size of pinheads on his face and arms, hundreds of them. A strong yet delicate hand made it to the lily-white column of his neck, touching the red patch of skin that’d probably turn into a bluish, yellowish bruise overnight. Brian let out a shaky breath, confused and intrigued at the unexpected proximity. It was brief. The wounded man let out a series of pained moans and gurgling sounds as he tried to get up from the floor, tried to speak, blood pooling in his mouth. 

Johnny’s snapped out of it, his hand falling to his side as he took a step backward.

“We ought to leave.” 

Brian, still somewhat dazed, let himself be guided out of the bathroom, down the dark corridor and, in the end, outside. The night that greeted them was damp and dark, and the ‘fresh’ air did them both some good, however polluted it was.

He looked down at where Johnny’s hand was still wrapped around his wrist. Johnny saw it too, stared at it, and then he let go and pulled him close, hugging him. They hadn’t ever hugged like that before. It struck the singer as odd, as magical, as super weird, as super good. But maybe it didn’t need to make sense. He just melted into it, feeling weak and weary after the confrontation – after the violence he’d witnessed – and Johnny was warm and he was constant and he was there, just there.

Danny, his driver, came to pick them up not ten minutes later. In the backseat of the Mercedes, they were cut off from the rest of the world, and for a while they just sat there in absolute silence, thinking about what had happened, what could have happened and everything in between.

“Well, that was…”

“Interesting?” Johnny offered. Brian shook his head. ‘Interesting’ didn’t quite cover it.

“No, but… thank you.”

_… For saving my skin, _he finished inside his head.

“You know,” Johnny began and licked his lips, his eyes holding him hostage, “when you’re on tour, you need bodyguards around the clock. It’s absurd that such a hooligan should be able to put his hands on you.” He raked his fingers through his long, messy hair, just slightly greasy. As he shifted, his jacket fell open and Brian caught a whiff of his cologne; it smelled woodsy, like leaves and earth and rain. It was nice, nice and real.

“I’m not on tour now, am I?” He grunted. “Stop being ridiculous.” 

“Damn it, Marilyn. _You_’re being ridiculous. He shouldn’t have been able to get that close to you in the first place and you know it. I mean, if _he _could do that, who else could get to you?”

The singer huffed, staring out the window, at traffic lights and drunk people and neon signs.

“I don’t like being babied.”

Johnny gave a dry, clipped laugh.

“Really, do you prefer dying?” he demanded, his eyes hardening.

“He wouldn’t have killed me.”

“No, no, he would’ve stopped after cutting you open, upon the first draw of blood. Or maybe he’d stop after raping you. How can you even use that as an argument?”

_Rape? _He frowned, wondering if Johnny had smoked his own socks at some point that evening. 

“That’s pretty far-fetched, Johnny. No one would rape me.”

The brunet snorted.

“Yes. Yes, they would’ve. Vermin like that? They don’t have a moral compass, and if they can terrorize you, belittle you, they will. They want to make the big guy feel small.”

An infinitesimal twitch in the singer’s lips told Johnny he’d hit the mark.

“Well, like I’ve been telling your dense self all week, I didn’t particularly want to go to that club – it has a fucking reputation and you know it,” he said, anger seeping into his voice. “_And _I enjoy my freedom; if armed guards were to be glued to my hip, as they say, I’d go insane. I never wanted to be the fucking president – I never wanted to be a target for all the crazy assholes out there. I just want to make music – I want to leave my fucking mark on the world, to make my message heard. _This _wasn’t part of the dream.”

“No grandiose dream comes without strings attached,” Johnny pointed out, sounding unimpressed. “There’s always a price to pay, my dear, and trust me, the devil always comes to collect. In the end, he does.”

“Well,” the younger man said, a bitter laugh bubbling from his throat, “hell’s empty, you know." 

Johnny’s eyes whipped to his. He understood.

“… And all the devils are here.”

With that said, he put his hand on top of the singer’s. Brian, despite being more than a little upset, allowed the contact. Liked it, even.

“Don’t die for nothing,” Johnny told him, voice softer. “You’re too valuable to go that way, or to be exposed to something like that. Too precious.”

“… To who?”

And damn it, when those seashell-pink lips curved into a soft smile that answered his question perfectly, a warm, feathery feeling bloomed inside his chest, a feeling that made all the misery of the world fade away. Neither of them said another word for the duration of the drive, and when they parted, all Johnny said was, “Hasta la vista, baby,” imitating Arnie – and failing at it. The car door closed with a soft thud, and the night swallowed him up, leaving Brian to his own devices.

_He’s actually insane, _he thought, and the smile on his face was relentless. Wouldn’t budge.

That night, and not for the first time, he masturbated in the shower while thinking about Johnny, and no, he didn’t feel guilty about it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you things would escalate, didn't I? And it'll only get darker... :)


	4. Possessed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very graphic. You've been warned.

September 2, 2001

Hildesheim, Germany 

It was one of those days. He had always been a grumpy motherfucker, but that day had been extreme. He had woken up with a bad headache, a stiff neck and a mood that could only be called satanic. Jeordie, who was usually absent-minded and slow, had picked up on it even before he had said ‘good morning’ and had wisely stayed out of his way. Other people hadn’t been as clever. One of the girls serving him food and drinks before the concert had left in tears. He would probably feel bad about it later – maybe send her some flowers – but not until tomorrow. No, he had to get a good night’s sleep and some much-needed solitude to recognize any pangs of conscience. 

Oh, to be back at home in his art studio, preferably with a glass of absinthe nestled in his hand. He yearned for it like nothing else.

Not fifteen minutes later, he scolded another worker for having ‘messed up’. The person in question had apparently brought him the wrong costume. When he suggested that he could fetch the right costume – it was the wrong fur coat – Brian had bawled him out, stating that they were already delayed because of ‘idiocy’.

“Jesus, Mazz. Whoever pissed on your parade?” John 5 wanted to know. Brian shot him a dirty look.

“Whoever said that _you _could talk to _me _like that?”

“… Don’t bother,” Pogo said, inserting himself into the conversation. “He’s just oh so sad he hasn’t gotten laid lately. Blue balls, you know.” He offered the singer a nauseatingly sweet smile. When the bassist entered the room, having changed into his characteristic dress, he said, “Twigs, can’t you do something about that? The crowd loves that gay shit.”

Jeordie frowned. “What gay shit?”

Pogo rolled his eyes at his cluelessness, not at all mistaking it for innocence. “We all know you like putting big dicks in your mouth. When’s it my turn anyways? I’m jealous!”

It was Jeordie’s turn to roll his eyes, sick of the vulgarities. “Never. I don’t want monkey aids, thank you very much. Besides, that, um, pickle… of yours… can hardly be described as a ‘big dick’.”

“Hah! So you do love big-”

“That’s enough!” Brian snapped. He had been trying to relax, but the incessant noise made it impossible. “Is this a bloody mental asylum or what? You both sound like, I don’t know, a pair of lobotomized gorillas, and I just can’t take it right now.” He let out a mirthless laugh, his knuckles white from clenching his fists so hard. “I want both of you to shut the fuck up! Think you can do that?”

“… You’re the lobotomized one,” Pogo muttered sullenly.

“He’s right,” John 5 said, and he and Pogo usually never saw eye to eye. “So just fuck off, man.”

The conversation was seconds away from escalating into a full-blown fight. Pogo and John 5 were both glaring at the frontman, angry with him for spoiling the good mood. Jeordie, on the other hand, looked more confused than anything else. He had never been the confrontational type. Brian wasn’t either, not really, but something about concerts and living up to the public persona made him on edge. After he had quit the drugs, which he had vowed to do in his autobiography, their every concert had tested his nerves.

“… Do you hear that, Mazz?” Jeordie asked, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

The crowd, impatient because it was 21:09 and the previous band had finished their set, started chanting ‘Manson, Manson, Manson’ over and over. Brian ran a hand through his hair and studied himself in the mirror one last time, feeling as though he had messed up his make-up. He wore black lipstick and a black streak across his eyes. What he didn’t like was how uneven the streak looked, but whatever, he would be a sweaty pig at the end of the show anyways. He supposed his insecurities stemmed from the fact that someone important would be watching – in the audience and against his better judgement – and he wanted to look sharp. The thought was in itself more than a little ridiculous. 

_You’re a tragic man, Brian Warner, _he told himself sternly. _Best to let Manson be in charge tonight, you fucking wuss. _

“Alright, let’s do this,” he told them, feeling slightly out of breath. The other men nodded curtly and went to grab their instruments. It was something of a bittersweet night, seeing as this concert would mark the end of the ‘Guns, God and Government Tour’. There was always a particular finality attached to this event, this last show, and to Brian, it marked the beginning of another restless phase, his fingers itching to start another project. It was strangely empty going from 100% to 0% in just one night, and returning home wasn’t ever as much fun as it seemed when homesick, especially when he’d come home to an empty bed.

“Mazz?” Jeordie said, his fingers ghosting over his arm. Brian pulled back slightly and said, “Sorry,” as if he’d been yelling at him and not the other guys. The bassist just smiled, aware that his best friend was, at times, a whirlwind of anger and aggression, and it meant nothing.

“Let’s go, Mazz.”

As the singer walked toward the stage, he felt his heartbeat quicken, and it wasn’t because of stage fright. Out there, hidden in a sea of people, someone special was waiting for him, eager to see him perform. He had to deliver, he told himself, and it had to be perfect. Plagued by these thoughts, he found it hard to concentrate on the task ahead. But the moment he walked out on the stage and was greeted by the roar of the audience, all of them screaming his name, his every worry evaporated like dew on a sunny day and he screamed into the microphone, feeling as confident and as arrogant as ever. 

* * *

Johnny hadn’t really had a good concert experience in years. Festivals hadn’t been an option because when you were someone as famous as Johnny Depp, you were bound to get groped and fondled by little women in the mosh pit. But then Brian had suggested for him to attend this particular festival. It wasn’t that he was immune to recognition just because he was in Germany, no, not at all, but the crowd was huge and people were preoccupied trying to keep track of their friends and the bands playing. Brian had also sent him a make-up bag – and had asked him to wear all black. He would disappear in the crowd that way. And he had been right. His face was made pale by the make-up, and his eyes were outlined with some heavy eyeliner and black eyeshadow, making him unrecognizable. He had also put some black lipstick on his mouth, but it was itchy and he kept wiping it away with the back of his hand. He pitied the singer for having to wear waxy stage make-up on a daily basis, which clogged pores and felt heavy when caked on. How his skin survived was beyond him.

_Where’s the fucker anyways? _Johnny wasn’t at the front, but he wasn’t far from it either. Goths and metalheads were swarming the place, reminding him of ants crawling all over a forgotten lollipop. _Fashionably late, are we, Marilyn? _

He drank some beer, though he was careful not to drink too much. The unsavory festival toilets were a short distance away, but when you had to elbow your way through a sea of people, that short distance could feel quite monstrous. 

The stage lights started flickering, demanding his attention. When the sound of a rough guitar cut through the air, the stage was bathed in harsh colors of blue and red. Brian’s voice – yet it wasn’t really Brian – started wheezing out the lyrics to ‘Angel with the Scabbed Wings’. Not that Johnny would ever say so, but he preferred it when he sang with his voice low and unaltered. The crowd went mad though, jumping and screaming, so his opinion couldn’t be a popular one. 

“… Rock and roll sores!” Brian screamed as he appeared out of the thick mist that covered the stage. He was wearing one of his corsets, platform boots and a leather skirt. Some kind of dead animal was fastened to his arm, and his make-up was heavy, his lips big and black, and he had black streaks down his chest and down his spine. All of this made him appear unearthly, a demonic presence so to speak, and the way he moved, so different from the quiet and reserved Brian Warner he knew, made for a terrifying experience. 

_Must be warm up there, _Johnny thought, slightly concerned. He himself was wearing black shorts and a gray tank top that said ‘Nihilist’ (because why not?), and he was still feeling overheated. Brian was, on the other hand, wearing a long leather skirt and had the lights on him. He had to be warm.

The stage lights died down for a couple of seconds. Johnny knitted his eyebrows in thought, wondering what was going on. Brian was breathing rather noisily into the microphone. Then the lights came back to life, flooding the stage and the singer, and he was no longer wearing the skirt. He had stripped down to just the G-string and torn nylon stockings.

“Nice ass, Marilyn,” the actor mused wryly to himself, smirking at the sight. It wasn’t like anyone could hear him over the music anyways. 

The singer raised his free hand and screamed, “How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?”, which made the crowd erupt in wild howls and whistling. Brian jumped up and down with a kind of energy Johnny hadn’t really associated him with before, being a total introvert by nature.

“… Hey, you, what do you see!” Brian screamed. “Something beautiful…”

Johnny wasn’t sure what to think when Brian started fondling his private parts. He was even less sure when the bassist – the one with the long black dreads and the creepy doll-like dress – approached the singer. What ensued was something better suited for a sleazy porn. Johnny frowned as the bassist kissed him on the lips, their mouths colliding. When the singer pulled the G-string down to his knees and Jeordie leaned down, his fingers still focused on the bass, Johnny’s frown deepened. The bassist was suddenly performing something other than music up on that stage, and Brian kept singing as though he hadn’t noticed how he was being sucked off. Then he grabbed a handful of Jeordie’s hair, violently thrusting into his mouth until his bass playing started suffering. The audience didn’t mind. Most of the girls around him became hysterical and began screaming. Johnny wasn’t as enthusiastic. He felt his mouth go dry at the sight, and the longer it went on, the more restless he felt.

_Why is he letting him do that? _he wondered, sipping on his beer. _He shouldn’t be doing that. _

Brian became very quiet, his face contorting with pleasure as he gazed down at the man between his legs. A white, hot anger suddenly flared through the actor, and he wanted nothing more than to climb that stage and separate the two, but an even more infuriating thought had him glued to the spot. How come he felt so angry in the first place? Another confusing emotion sprang to life when Jeordie removed himself from the singer, running back to the corner of the stage in time for the song to end. For a split second before Brian could pull his G-string back up, he saw the aching red flesh, big and hard, and he felt his own dick twitching with curious delight. Desire merged with rage rippled through his limbs, screaming for him to touch himself or fuck someone, preferably up against a wall until his body convulsed with pleasure. It was madness, this feeling – instinct – and he tried as best he could to ignore it, his eyes focusing solely on his friend’s face. 

“Rock is dead!” the singer yelled, still bouncing around like a bobblehead on steroids, his skin glistening with sweat and oily make-up. The spotlight on the dim stage illuminated him like the fallen angel he was (or perhaps ‘alien’ was a better word to describe him), bathing him in cool shades of blue. He looked otherworldly none the less, beautiful in a way only Marilyn Manson could be. Johnny had been curious about this from the get-go, about how a man such as him could be beautiful, but after their friendship had started blooming, he’d realized what it was. Marilyn was himself, and there was something utterly indefinable about his personality, so vulnerable and strong at the same time, and the strength relied entirely on his ability to be fragile.

_Beautiful, beautiful man_, he thought to himself, smiling in spite of the anger that still coiled around in his gut like a snake. 

_Wait, ‘beautiful’? _Johnny wrinkled his forehead, his skin prickling with unease. _This won’t do, Johnny. This won’t do at all. __I need another drink, or five_, he convinced himself and made his way through the crowd, desperate for another beer, if only to suppress the mental images. He was equal parts disgusted and fascinated by what he’d seen onstage that day, by the sexual acts and the performance alike, and while he considered himself to be every bit as open-minded as Marilyn, he couldn’t quite come to terms with the feelings that had been stirred. It made him feel very thirsty indeed.

* * *

Two extra numbers hadn’t been enough. They had ended the concert with ‘Great Big White World’, always the sentimental farewell song of his choice. Metallic confetti had rained down on the stage and made for an appropriate end to an altogether amazing tour. Heck, he even felt a tad emotional as he stood in his dressing room before the mirror, rubbing a wet wipe down his neck to remove the black streaks. They were already smudged beyond recognition and made him look dirty. He was a sweaty mess, his hair clinging to his skin all the way down his neck, and like always after a performance, he desperately wanted to take a shower and get back to his hotel room, utterly spent. 

There was a knock on the door. Before he could answer, Pogo stuck his head in the door to let him know that he and John 5 were going to the backstage area, clearly ready to party into the wee hours like the junkies they were.

“You’re not joining us, are you?” the keyboardist asked, raising one brow at him. He looked exhausted, probably due to his flushed, red skin and wet hair. Besides, he had poured his water bottles over the audience rather than drink it himself, and beer – all that was left – would only make you more dehydrated. 

“Nah,” the singer replied. “I’m rather tired.”

“T’was a good show you put on there, Mazz.” He walked over to the small fridge and pulled out a water bottle, placing it on the table in front of the singer. 

“You too, Pogo.” He smiled at the kind gesture. “Thanks.”

The mad clown nodded, grinning widely. “Have a good one. I’ll try be there for the hotel breakfast. I sure do like those tiny bratwursts.”

Brian shifted his attention from the mirror to the bald man. “You haven’t got enough with the one in your pants?” The other man just grinned, happy that the caustic tone was merely mocking and not angry as it had been before the concert. They had made their peace. Not that he had been overly worried, but yes, Brian was an unpredictable man with a bit of a mean streak, and it cost him nothing to cuss out his friends when stressed. But the stupid fights never lasted for long, and as soon as the concert was over, Brian would go back to his normal self, all quiet and reserved.

“See you later, alligator,” he said jokingly, closing the door behind him with a soft thud. Brian resumed to removing the make-up, sighing as he rubbed himself raw with the wipes. Theatrical make-up was meant to last and just a shower wouldn’t do. 

_I just want to go to bed_, he thought sullenly, wondering if Jeordie would wait for him or catch the last few bands, or maybe party with the other guys. Sometimes, they’d just goof around at the hotel, watch a few movies and have some junk food. After he’d quit the drugs, it was easier to do silly stuff like that than to go out, and it wasn’t so much about temptation as it was about having to babysit his baked friends. 

Someone suddenly hammered on the door, making him jump.

“Pogo, the door’s still open!” he shouted angrily. Only it wasn’t Pogo who entered the room, it was Johnny.

“In a mood, are we?” the actor asked, one eyebrow arching.

The singer sighed, mumbling, “That guy can be a pain in the ass. Did you have a good time going undercover?”

“Ah, yes. No one recognized me, so it must have been quite successful.” He smiled softly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “The concert was great too, Marilyn.”

Brian tossed him a pack of make-up wipes and said, “You can take off your face again now.”

Johnny didn’t protest. He had wanted to get rid of the itchy lipstick for hours, suspecting that they were making his lips dry. Nothing was sexier than chapped and dry lips, right? He hoped it wasn’t the brand Brian usually wore. 

The singer had finished cleaning his chest area, but the streaks on his spine were impossible to reach. 

“Can you help me out?” he asked, offering the actor an almost apologetic look. He had removed his own make-up in record time and looked as handsome as ever, though upon being asked to lend him a helping hand, his eyes darkened considerably. Brian wasn’t sure what was up with that, but he figured he didn’t really want to touch his clammy, disgusting skin.

“Sure thing, doll.”

Johnny closed the space between them, putting his hand on Brian’s waist as he gently wiped away the smeared make-up. The singer didn’t feel the hand through the corset, though he saw it in the mirror. Raising a brow, he decided not to comment on it. He could smell the alcohol on him and decided that his balance wasn’t great. Having known Johnny for some time now, he knew the man had some issues with alcohol. He was perhaps a bit too dependent on it, and it made him about as steady on his feet as a newborn giraffe not yet familiar with the concept of gravity.

“… I didn’t… didn’t love the part with the fellatio,” the actor commented, his grip on his waist suddenly firm.

“Hmm? Oh, that.” Brian laughed. “It’s nothing.”

Johnny snorted, clearly upset. “It isn’t nothing. It’s sex.”

“Well,” the singer said, feeling slightly offended. “It isn’t like I have a girlfriend anymore. No one is gonna be upset about it – and the crowd loves it. I fail to see the problem.”

“Prostituting yourself for-” 

“Johnny,” he snapped. “It isn’t about that. Don’t be an asshole – and don’t be fucking stupid. Me and Twigs have been doing it for years and years. It’s just part of the experience, you know? I hardly think that you – an actor with plenty of sex scenes under his belt – has the right to criticize me for feigning sex onstage. I’m a grown ass man.”

“It wasn’t _feigning _anything,” the older man grumbled, throwing the dirty wipe in the garbage can and getting a fresh one. He was nearly done removing the make-up on his neck and shoulders. “He was giving you an actual blowjob. 

The singer rolled his eyes, fed up with the conversation.

“It’s how it is. Why are you being so fucking weird about it anyhow? What are you, the fucking morality police?”

Johnny didn’t answer, he just grunted. Then, as Brian reached for a new wipe and brought it to his face, trying to remove the terribly smudged make-up around his eyes, Johnny said, “Don’t take your make-up off,” in a calm yet stern voice. The singer froze, staring at him in the mirror. He watched as Johnny placed a tan, calloused hand on his waist for a second time, only this time there was no logical explanation for it.

“I can hardly walk around like this,” the singer argued, disobeying his wish. Johnny’s eyes gleamed dangerously, his jaw tightening.

“Don’t,” he warned him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Brian asked, taking one step to the side. Johnny withdrew his hand for a second, but his eyes were glued to his bum. Brian shuddered, feeling uncomfortable with where this was heading.

“I think you should leave,” he said, sensing that something was going on behind those dark eyes. “You’re high on something – and you’re being really fucking weird.”

Johnny laughed mirthlessly at the statement, completely ignoring the taller man’s discomfort. He approached him, grabbing him forcibly by the arm and pulling him closer. The singer, surprised by the violent outburst, attempted to get away, but the actor wouldn’t have it. His fingers dug into his skin, undoubtedly leaving bruises on his arms. At this, he gave a small gasp of pain and said, “Ouch,” almost jokingly, but when Johnny still wouldn’t stop manhandling him, a chill went down his spine and he started to panic, aware he wasn’t being pranked.

“Johnny-”

“Don’t ‘Johnny’ me, princess,” the older man growled and took a step closer to the singer, his hands tightening on both his arms. “You tease.”

_Tease?_

It took him a moment to process what he’d been called. Realization then dawned on the singer’s face, and a wave of color flushed his cheeks. He felt embarrassed and confused by what was being implied. He had, of course, never been accused of being a slut before, and had the circumstances been different, he would’ve laughed. But looking at Johnny’s face, at the angry vein visible on his forehead, he knew it wasn’t a joke. It said much about the actor, and the last couple of months suddenly made sense. Brian had been asking himself non-stop about why Johnny fucking Depp had wanted to befriend him, constantly calling and messaging him, and now he knew. He was an insane drug addict with insane fetishes.

“Johnny, you’re drunk,” he mumbled, trying to hide his bitter disappointment.

“I don’t care!” the actor sneered, droplets of spit flying from his mouth. Brian smelled the alcohol on his breath, and his heart sank. This aggressive behavior wasn’t at all what he had expected from his friend – his close friend, at that – and he didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry. He tried to move, but the actor was strong and his hands kept him in place; besides, he was shocked, almost astounded – or outraged, that Johnny was practically slut shaming and manhandling him. Christ, it was bizarre, or beyond bizarre. It was gross. 

“Let go of me,” Brian said calmly, schooling his voice to appear normal. “Johnny, let go of me.”

“No.”

Brian growled angrily as he attempted to jerk himself free from his grasp. Johnny shook his head, his pupils huge and full of lust. He let go of his arms, but of course, he wasn’t done with him just yet. He shoved him forcefully in the chest, pushing him backwards until he stood with his back pressed against the wall. All of a sudden, they were chest to chest, the actor’s hands on either side of his face.

“Do you know how much you turn me on right now?” Johnny whispered hoarsely. Brian, angry but not really afraid, rolled his eyes and said, “Will you please let go of me?” 

Johnny’s mouth was suddenly on his, claiming his lips in a bruising kiss. His right hand wandered down his abdomen and landed on his groin, rubbing his dick in an all but pleasant manner. Every movement was violent and full of desperation, as though he had waited years to do this. When the singer didn’t respond, he bit his lip, making him gasp in pain. The taste of blood filled his mouth, and then Johnny shoved his tongue inside, mixing metallic blood with alcohol and cigarettes. 

As they kissed, something clicked. The actor seemed to calm down, slowly and gently exploring his mouth. Brian felt the heat rising in his cheeks, and he loosened up, momentarily forgetting how messed up this was. But when the brunet’s knee landed between his thighs, nearly forcing his legs apart, he cried out, “Stop, stop, stop, you fucking idiot!” while flailing his arms around like a frightened chicken. The actor just chuckled, unfazed.

“… You want this,” he whispered into his ear while taking a hold of his wrists. “I can feel it, Marilyn. Men are so simple like that.” He was fondling his dick again, and yes, he was having a physical reaction to the touching. It didn’t even feel that bad, if he were to be honest, but it wasn’t about that. 

“I’m not a fan of violence, Depp,” he spat.

“Doesn’t have to be that, Marilyn.” He smiled. “But I figured you’d need a little… encouragement.”

The hand slipped between his ass cheeks. Brian nearly screamed, appalled, though only a small, pitiful sound escaped his lips, a whimper of sorts. It was as if his vocal chords had been plucked out, and for all that he wanted to scream, kick and fight, he couldn’t. But when Johnny’s finger started pressing against him, reality came crashing down, and a flare of obstinate anger reared up in him, making him fight back. Throwing all his body-weight into the move, he slammed against his chest. This caught the actor by surprise, and he lost his balance, nearly falling backwards. With another hard blow, Brian tore from his grasp and jumped back, but he’d failed to notice the chair next to them and stumbled over it, falling to the ground with a loud crash. Before he could get up again, Johnny’s hand was in his hair, pulling him to his feet and pushing him against the table. He tried to escape, tried kicking and scratching him while shouting, “Get off me!”, but the older man’s hand was still tangled in his hair. He tugged at a fistful of it, hard, and the singer screamed.

“Johnny,” he hissed, breathing hard. “Johnny!”

“You want this, love.”

Brian gave a startled gasp as the older man continued, rolling his hips against his buttocks, letting him feel how hard he was. At this, the singer saw red, and within the blink of an eye, he spun around in his arms and kicked him in the groin, making him double over in pain, a loud shriek escaping his lungs. 

_Now or never, _he thought; but before could throw him off, a solid weight rolled on top of him, pinning him to the spot. Johnny lay on top of him, unmoving, his weight and size immobilizing him. He felt his chin on his shoulder, his warm breath tickling him. And then he whispered, “You like it rough, eh?”, dragging his stubble across the milky white skin. “Just how rough, Marilyn?” Lips clamped down on his ear. They were light at first, but then he bit down harder, leaving his mark. The actor was clearly waiting for a reaction, but he stubbornly remained silent, determined not to cave in, not to be weak.

“Suit yourself, princess.”

“I-”

He couldn’t finish that sentence. Johnny drew his earlobe between his teeth and nipped at the delicate skin. Hardly able to think anymore, the raven-haired man drew in shuddering breath and tried to think of ways to end this before it was too late.

“Get off,” he said, and his voice was raw and nearly cracked. Johnny didn’t listen, of course, and Brian started struggling against him, making sounds of protest through his nose as he tried to jab at him with his elbows. The older man just laughed, grabbing his hair and yanking his head back. This time, Brian couldn’t suppress the scream that rose in his throat, a scream that ended in a pathetic little sob.

_Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck, _was all the singer could think, now panicking. _Move, move, move… _

The brunet stopped mid-action, let go of his hair, now clumped together in a sweaty, waxy mess, and looked at his face in the mirror, studying it. 

“Marilyn,” he eventually murmured, dragging his mouth along his neck, sucking lightly at the soft skin there until he gave an involuntary shudder. “You’re loving it – I know you are,” he whispered, kissing him just below the ear.

“Get off me,” the younger man growled, but there wasn’t any real anger in his voice, not anymore, and when a warm, gentle hand started caressing his thigh, his breath audibly hitched. Johnny drew circles with his fingers, and he mewled. Like a bloody animal, he’d mewled! The actor chuckled, thoroughly pleased with himself – with how he could draw such a reaction from him. Brian, on the other hand, felt nothing but disgust.

“Be a good girl, princess,” the brunet murmured, his hand tugging down the G-string. As he started touching his private parts, he whispered, “Ah, you’re hard, Marilyn. You’re beautifully hard.”

He was hard. He didn’t know why. Finally, as a wave of shame rolled over him, his eyes began to sting. Perhaps he was sick and twisted enough to enjoy violence? To entertain fantasies of rape? But no, he had never imagined this scenario. He had thought about Johnny – about his flawless features and toned body – but not_this_. He wasn’t sure he wanted it. It was, however, difficult to deny someone when they were stroking your hard dick. He was a guy and clearly knew what he was doing with that hand, drunk or not. Brian couldn’t keep himself from moaning, but he hated himself for it. And he hated Johnny for making him feel good; for making him feel bad.

_What am I, a stupid woman? _

He tried fighting it, nearly pushing the actor off him, but he was tired and weak from the concert. Putting up a fight wasn’t really doable, not when Johnny worked out on a daily basis and was strong and agile. He slammed his body against his, pressing him down with his chest.

“I’m going to fuck you now, Marilyn,” he whispered. “I’ve never fucked another fellow before though. It might hurt.”

His eyes widened in panic.

“No,” he said quietly, staring at himself in the mirror in wide-eyed fear. “Johnny, no. Don’t-”

“Marilyn,” he murmured against his skin. His nose nuzzled his neck and he breathed deeply, savoring his scent. 

“We’re friends, Johnny.” He drew in a sharp breath. “_Friends_.”

The actor continued stroking him, the feeling perfect. Jeordie had given him a bad blowjob an hour earlier, but he had been given no release. His dick was begging for it now, weeping with anticipation. Pleasure was exchanged for pain when he felt a finger up his ass, feeling about as unpleasant as he had imagined it would. He had done it before, of course, but then lube had been involved, and it had been done as foreplay or to give him a stronger orgasm. Now he was being prepared for something bigger.

“Say you want it, Marilyn,” the actor whispered softly, pressing little kisses to his neck. “Say you want me to fuck you.”

Brian squeezed his eyes shut, unable to meet his own gaze in the mirror.

“No.”

The hand around his member went limp.

“Say it.” 

“No, I- ah!” Another finger was inserted, scissoring him open. The burning sensation wasn’t at all pleasant.

“Say it,” he breathed, licking his skin. “Say you want me to fuck you.” The hand teased him, fondling with his balls. “Say it, Marilyn. Say it now. I’ll make you come.”

“J-Johnny,” he whimpered, now trembling. “There’s… t-there’s some moisturizer…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish that sentence. Johnny didn’t move.

“Say it.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, wondering if he wanted this or not. The situation wasn’t nice, but the hand cupped around his junk certainly was. The prospect of having a dick shoved up his bum wasn’t really the greatest either, but he wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept of physical pain. Besides, if it would get Johnny to back off, he supposed it wasn’t so bad. He could live with being fucked in the ass by Johnny Depp, even if it broke his heart a little bit.

“I… I want you to fuck me.”

“Say ‘I want you to fuck me in the ass, Johnny’.”

He growled, angry that the man had the nerve to ask for more. 

“Take it or leave it, you piece of shit!” he hissed.

The older man chuckled. “Alright. But I’m not getting the moisturizer. I’d turn around and you’d be gone without a trace. Wouldn’t want that.”

He was about to hurl some insult at him, but the fingers left him and the tip of his cock brushed against his entrance. This made him panic. He wasn’t ready for that. 

“Use your spit,” he almost begged, willing the fear out of his voice. “Please.”

“Alright.” Again, he kissed his neck. Brian found that he liked the sensation, which was absurd. The situation was absurd. He glanced in the mirror again and saw Johnny positioned behind him. It made him whimper, afraid and yet not. Nervous maybe? He hated the position he was in. The submission.

“There we go, princess,” Johnny said, pressing his finger against his tight opening once more. The warm, slick finger slipped inside with relative ease, though lube – or even that damn moisturizer – would have worked wonders. He wasn’t sure he had ever hated someone more than he hated Johnny right then and there. Not that it mattered, but this was the last of his innocence. Johnny was taking it from him. 

He withdrew his hand. For about five seconds, nothing happened. Brian heard him breathing heavily, and then he felt a hand on his thigh, once again caressing the sensitive skin there. He broke out in gooseflesh, his body involuntarily melting into the touch, betraying him.

“Say it again,” Johnny said, sounding more like himself. “Say you want this. Me.”

“… What if I don’t?”

“It doesn’t matter.” 

For the first time in more than a year, he felt like crying, felt like shouting and screaming and sobbing until there was nothing left in him. But he had more dignity than that, even now, even as he felt Johnny’s dickhead pressing against his opening, begging to bury itself in his warmth.

“I… I want you,” he said mechanically. “I want you.” 

Johnny didn’t hesitate. He pushed inside him, straining against the resisting muscle. The pain of penetration was intense. He wasn’t sure when he was all the way inside, it all just hurt too much to think, to feel or care about anything but the pain. It was like having a red-hot poker shoved up your rectum, burning and twisting. The scream that tore from his chest was loud and tortured, involuntary and hollow, his entire body convulsing with pain. Only when the actor stopped moving for a brief moment, allowing him to adjust, did the scream die down. He was sobbing instead, though he wasn’t actually crying. It was the pain.

“You’re doing so good,” Johnny moaned, grabbing a hold of his ass cheeks, parting them to get a better look. A deep sight fell from his lips, apparently satisfied with what he was seeing.

“Mm. So tight and good.”

Brian wanted it to be over with, wanted the pain to stop, and hissed, “Are you gonna do this or not?”

The brunet slammed into him, not holding anything back. Brian managed to keep silent as he moved, biting his lip so hard he could taste blood in his mouth. Johnny, for whatever reason, slowed down, his thrusts less aimless and more precise. The singer felt like a ragdoll, moving to the rhythm of Johnny’s body, not able to move an inch. Because of the new pace, however, the pain slowly subsided, becoming nothing but a dull ache. Johnny’s hands were still on his hips though, digging into his skin, holding him in place. It hurt, but then Johnny changed his position slightly, allowing him to go deeper. The singer let out a gasp of pleasure, a barely constrained, “Aah!” as he brushed against something within him, something he hadn’t felt before. It was delicious. Johnny, sensing this, started fucking him harder. Faster. And under them, the table creaked and groaned, hitting the wall with every thrust. Brian, squeezing his eyes shut, focused on that sound, forgetting about the grunts, about the hands.

_Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud… _

In his head, he placed himself inside the beach house and the messy bedroom, Johnny’s eyes warm and brown and kind, his smile affectionate. He’d often daydreamed about it, a kind of escapism when life had been a bitch, and now, feeling helpless, he returned to it, to the dream. It made it almost bearable. The table became the bed, moving with them, hitting the wall.

_Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud… _

The actor certainty wasn’t daydreaming. All the while fucking his friend, his ‘pseudo brother’, he continued kissing his neck, biting into his flesh. “Does that feel good?” he asked, sounding slightly awed. All Brian could do was moan as he hit that sweet spot, the pain long forgotten. In a way, he’d surrendered to it, to the pleasure, and when the older man wrapped his hand around his dick, pumping him, he felt himself unraveling.

“I’m gonna come,” the actor whispered. “You’re so good and tight. I’m gonna come.”

Brian beat him to the punch. He cried out unashamedly, his insides clenching around Johnny’s dick. For those short seconds, he felt as though he were exploding into a thousand pieces, abandoning himself to the moment as he shattered, broke, splinters flying everywhere. Johnny delivered a couple more thrusts before he came, breathing, “Marilyn,” over and over as hot semen spurted out, making the wounds burn again. Then, as soon as his body had stopped jerking with the after-tremors of the orgasm, he collapsed on top of him, panting heavily.

The world, apart from the faint noise of some band playing in the distance, was completely silent. Brian opened his eyes and met his own reflection in that damn mirror again. He hadn’t realized he’d been crying, but now that he was seeing his own reflection, he was confronted by the redness of his eyes and cheeks; snot and spit dribbled down his chin in strings. Something deep inside of him started hurting, falling apart at the seams, only he’d already fallen apart once before. There was nothing left to kill, he’d thought. And yet there was.

“… You…” he said, his mind blank all of a sudden. Johnny pulled out and fumbled for his clothes. 

“Get moving,” the actor said, sounding oddly panicked. “Get dressed. Or take a shower.”

Brian got up from the table. A sharp pain shot up from his bum, nearly paralyzing him.

“I’m…” Johnny began, clearing his throat. “Jesus, Marilyn. What did we do here?”

The singer turned around and saw Johnny standing by the door, his hand on the door knob. Brian saw the guilt and fear reflected in his brown eyes, and he realized what had in fact just happened. His mouth felt as though stuffed with cotton. His tongue wouldn’t move to form coherent words or sentences. He just couldn’t. 

“I’m sorry,” the actor said, running a hand through his messy locks. “Shit, shit, shit. I don’t know what just happened,” he whispered, more to himself than to the singer, and then he shook his head. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna leave now. Yeah, I’m gonna get going.”

Their eyes met briefly. Brian broke it off.

“Bye, Johnny,” he said, his voice cracking.

The actor didn’t hesitate. He ran out the door like a skittish cat, afraid to face the consequences of what he had just done. Brian stared at the open door for the longest time, his mind a jumbled mess of fractured thoughts and pictures, memories. His ass felt like it’d been ripped apart by a meat cleaver; the wound burned and burned, and he knew he was probably injured but couldn’t get his act together. He didn’t know what to do and felt scared, scared that Johnny would return and scared to have a look. For a couple of minutes, all he could do was stand upright and stare ahead, his face hardening like a fist. But in his eyes, the pain – the vulnerability – was all too obvious. 

Someone knocked on the doorframe, forcing him to snap out of his daze. He was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was half-naked and felt sick to his stomach. A wide-eyed Jeordie then appeared, looking concerned. He was wearing his normal clothes – an oversized Hole T-shirt and striped leggings – and stood in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest. In his eyes, Brian saw a myriad of conflicting emotions.

“Oh,” was all he said as he tried to process the scene he’d stumbled upon. Brian’s face was red and swollen. A trail of milky cum mixed with something red was running down his thigh, and he was naked from the waist down. Around his ankles was the G-string – and his hair was ruffled, the strands clumped together, and his eyes were blank, empty almost. It didn’t take him long to connect the dots.

Brian didn’t know what to do. He tried sitting down on the couch and immediately flinched, the pain nearly unbearable. _Fucking hell, _he thought. What had Johnny done to him? Bile rose in his throat. 

“Let’s fix this,” Jeordie said, ushering him to the bathroom and locking the door behind them.

“… He,” the singer said, voice raw and broken. “He just…”

“Shh,” the bassist said, walking over to where Brian was standing by the towel rack, his fingers curled around the metal rod. He hunkered down in front of him, never once breaking eye contact. “I’ll help,” he said quietly and started rolling down the nylon stockings, slowly and with careful hands. There was no judgement in those brown eyes of his, only compassion. Love. He wasn’t even disgusted by the smell of sex or the cum. “Been there, done that,” was all he said about it, though he had no clue exactly what had happened. The blood had him worried though.

Jeordie stepped into the shower and reached for the shower head, adjusting the water. When it was warm enough, he looked back at the singer and saw that he was staring absently at the wall, his mouth twitching and his limbs shaking unsteadily. He had never seen him in such a fragile state before. It unsettled him.

“Mazz,” he called out. “You can take a shower now."

The singer just shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he listened to the gentle hum of the shower. It would burn, wouldn’t it?

_You’re such a fucking wuss, Brian Warner. No wonder he did that to you with not a scratch on him. _

_You let him, _his mind chided. _You. Let. Him._

“Hey, come on, Mazz,” the bassist said, offering him a reassuring smile. “I’ll get you some clean clothes in the meantime, alright?”

“… Alright.”

When he was alone in the room, he let go of the towel rack and went to have a shower. The water was pleasantly warm and cleansed him of all remnants of the other man. His scent on his skin. His spit. His cum. He reached for the sponge on the small shelf, and as he cleaned and scrubbed himself vigorously with it, he rubbed until his skin was red with soreness. The discomfort of washing his bum was greater than expected. He whimpered, willing himself not to cry again. It was, of course, useless. He stood motionless in the shower, feeling the warm water splashing against his skin, and his tears started flowing, merging with the water. There was no fear, not anymore, but there was an overwhelming feeling of disbelief. Then there was the sadness. 

“… Mazz?” Jeordie knocked on the door, his voice steady yet concerned. “Are you alright? You’ve been in there for more than twenty minutes.” No answer. “Can I come in?”

He came in, though the singer hadn’t responded.

“Here,” he said, handing his friend a towel. After he had toweled himself dry, the younger man helped him get dressed. The clean black shirt and gray pants felt heavenly in comparison to his stage clothes, too tight and revealing. He felt like a new man altogether, but the discomfort shooting up from his bum reminded him that it wasn’t so. 

_What happened here? _he asked himself as they exited the bathroom. The dirty wipes in the trashcan made him want to puke.

“You still have some make-up on your face,” Jeordie pointed out. “D’you want me to help you with that?”

“Nah,” Brian mumbled. “I’ll deal with it later.”

As it turned out, he dealt with it the next morning. Johnny never turned up for breakfast, nor did he show up at the airport, as had been the plan. He supposed they didn’t have plans anymore. Not after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I wrote this, I thought it was the ugliest thing I've ever written. I still feel that way, but I like it anyways.


	5. As the World Falls Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone's feeling guilty... 
> 
> Comments are appreciated <3

September 3, 2001

Hildesheim, Germany

Johnny wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting on the bed, smoking cigarette after cigarette while staring blankly out the window, but he guessed he’d been sitting there for hours. His mind was torn to shreds. The scene back in the dressing room was playing on repeat, a horror movie in which he had played the part of the monster, and his Marilyn – his sweetest, loveliest Marilyn – had been the victim. Glancing down at his wristwatch, his eyebrows bumped together. Only minutes had passed.

He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and got out of bed. His head was still dizzy and his senses numbed, a result of the pills he’d taken, and as he walked toward the bathroom, his foot got caught in the rug and he lost his balance, tripping forward. Before he could get better acquainted with the floor, however, he picked himself up and stumbled over to the wall, following it to the bathroom. Once inside, he locked the door, wanting his privacy as he fell apart.

_Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. _He gripped the sides of the sink, his fingers turning white from applying too much pressure, and stared at himself in the mirror, his skin clammy and pale. _What did you do? _As realization tore through him like mortar, his eyes widened in disbelief. _What the fuck did you do? _

Shivering, though not cold, the actor undressed, stuffing the worn clothes into his suitcase. When he saw his naked body in the mirror, he flinched. He flinched thinking about the body fluids, the sweat, grime, bacteria and whatnot that clung to his skin. He flinched thinking about the crime his limbs had committed, steered by his treacherous mind.

Stepping into the shower, he started soaping and rinsing. Only when the glass door started fogging up and he couldn’t see his reflection anymore did he relax. But when his hand drifted to his genitals, a sudden wave of nausea hit him. He saw the stripe of cum – and blood. He saw his Marilyn’s swollen eyelids. Gods, the images were worse than any horror movie he’d ever seen! The thought was enough to make him double over and retch, though he had hardly eaten anything that day and it was mostly just the alcohol making its way back up his esophagus. It escaped through his mouth and nose, leaving behind a burning sensation that was far from pleasant. The stench made his stomach clench, signaling he was about to throw up again. Another round of stink water flew out his mouth and disappeared down the drain, the smell sickening, urging him to puke again, but there wasn’t anything left in his stomach. He just heaved, feeling dreadful, and yet he deserved much, much worse. After what he’d done, he deserved a cozy little spot in hell, and if there was a God, he’d be condemned to suffer there for all eternity. But at that point, with the guilt driving him nuts, hell would be something of a relief. 

_You’re a monster! A despicable piece of garbage! _

In the midst of thinking these thoughts, he bit down on his lip until it bled, and the metallic taste conjured up mental images that hit him like a shovel in the face. _No-no-no-no_, he thought, feeling as if the walls had shifted closer._No. _He squeezed his eyes shut as he washed his privates, thinking about Brian’s asshole and how his dick had pushed its way inside, tearing the tender, unprepared flesh, making him bleed.

“… Oh, you fucking…” he told himself, now feeling tears in his eyes. He could hardly breathe.

After rubbing and washing his flesh vigorously, he finished up in the shower and wrapped the white hotel towel around his waist. When he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, eyes bloodshot and with rivers of leftover make-up running down his cheeks, his legs caved in and he sank into a pitiful heap of limbs on the floor, utterly devoid of anything but rage and disgust. The concept of self-loathing hadn’t really ever been lost on him, having grown up as white trash, but now, after the violent outburst, it overwhelmed him. How could he have done that? Forcing his friend, perhaps the best friend he had ever had, to fuck. But it wasn’t fucking, no, it was something much, much uglier.

_I raped him. _He squeezed his eyes shut, a loud sob tearing from his chest._I did that. And I made him scream and still couldn’t find it in me to stop hurting him._

And where was he now? Who was with him? Was he safe? Johnny hadn’t been able to even look at him. The moment of realization had come as soon as the high of his orgasm had ebbed away, finding that he couldn’t have been a willing participant. There had been blood, tears and snot. He also couldn’t forget about the confused look on his face and the wounded look in his eyes, almost as though he had tried to put a bullet in him, and he had. In a way, he had. The betrayal was the same – if not worse – because the lust, which he had thought controllable, had been in charge. Not just lust though, no, it had been lust and anger and jealousy, all things sinful and selfish mixed together. There had been no love in it, and, as he was beginning to realize, nor would there ever be any love. Not only had he raped Marilyn, he had raped the prospect of any future love between them, something he’d secretly yearned for all this time.

_How can I go on like this? _he asked himself, the pain all-consuming, throbbing like a deep, infected wound. He, who had been deemed the most handsome man alive on several occasions, had found it necessary to rape. Rapists were undeserving of life, that was how he had always felt about it. The thought of someone doing this to the women in his life was enough to make him want to strangle all possible perpetrators with his bare hands, only he couldn’t strangle himself. It struck him that he was hanging by a thread now. He was scum. A waste of skin, really, and if it hadn’t been for the love of his life, his child, he wouldn’t have wanted to live on, or so he thought.

_I need to go home, _he told himself, biting the inside of his cheek. _Need to get away. _

The last thing he did before passing out on the cold tiled floor was call his personal assistant, asking him to arrange for a private flight back home.

Back to France. 

Back to his daughter.

_But how can I even look at her? _His vision became blurry and unfocused. He started gasping for air, now hyperventilating, tears streaming down his already red, blotchy face. _How can I even touch her? How can I when my hands are bloodied? _

He fell asleep, only to jolt awake five hours later. His assistant was inside his suite, knocking on the bathroom door while saying, “Mr. Depp, are you in there?” over and over. He sounded a little bit panicky. The reason for this was that takeoff was scheduled for 08:30 a.m. They had less than an hour – not that the plane would leave without him, but it would take some time to reschedule. Johnny was out the door in five minutes, desperate to leave Hildesheim behind, and more importantly, desperate to hold Lily in his arms. 

* * *

September 3, 2001

Le Plan-de-la-Tour, France

Home. He let out a breath of relief, taking in the sight of the rustic, picturesque buildings and the pool. Their handyman, Jacques, was in the middle of cleaning it. Johnny shouted, ‘Hello!’, and immediately berated himself for having spoken in English. Jacques grinned and said, ‘Good day, sir,’ and continued working.

Johnny walked to the main entrance and went inside, removing his shoes in the hallway. When he opened the door to the kitchen not two minutes later, he was greeted by the sight of his wife and child seated at the table. Vanessa was feeding Lily apple sauce. The girl was now sixteen months old and had turned into a pleasant child who liked to giggle and say a bunch of mostly nonsensical words. In the beginning, she had cried a lot, like all babies, but now she was all smiles. Well, with the natural exception of bedtime. If he wasn’t there to tell her a bedtime story, complete with funny voices and plush animals, she would fuss and fuss. He normally felt overcome with happiness upon returning to the house, cuddling with her and spoiling her, but his joy that day was subdued by the guilt that was like a chain around his neck. Looking at the perfect little child, a child who trusted her father like man trusts his gods, he felt undignified.

“Johnny,” Vanessa said, barely even acknowledging his return. “I didn’t expect you back so soon. Weren’t you going back to LA with Marilyn?”

The question hit him like a sack of potatoes over his head.

“… I, um,” he mumbled, sitting down at the table and stroking Lily’s hair. “I changed my mind.

She nodded, putting the bowl of apple sauce down on the table. Lily didn’t appear to be very interested in it, now distracted by her father.

“Da-da,” she said, smiling from one ear to the other. Her little hands reached out for him. For one reason or the other, he almost started tearing up at the indefinite love those brown eyes held for him. How he could have failed her so was beyond him – and his wife, too, who knew nothing. 

“Have you been behaving nicely?” he asked, tickling her. She laughed, letting out happy squeals.

“Johnny,” Vanessa said after some time, having watched her husband and child interacting. He didn’t look at her but let out a quiet, “mm,” too focused on Lily to really listen.

“You look horrible.” 

Frowning, he asked, “Do I now?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” 

He ignored her statement, aware that she had mentioned it out of spite. They were both very aware that he looked like something the cat had dragged in. No one needed to point it out. There was also the fact that they had fought over his ‘bad habits’ before the trip to Hildesheim. Vanessa knew him well enough to understand that not insignificant amounts of alcohol, and possibly even drugs, had worn him out, but that didn’t mean she accepted it, of course. Their marriage had taken some blows since Lily had been born, which was mostly his fault, really, and he knew that she was worried. At some point, if nothing improved, something would have to happen, namely divorce. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn she had already taken a new lover, too sick of him to care. He wouldn’t take offence. The feeling was, after all, mutual.

“… It’s time for a nap, Lily, sweetheart,” Vanessa told her daughter. The little girl scowled at her mother and then gazed up at Johnny with a pleading look, as if he could save her from the horrors of naptime. 

“No-o,” she said in protest, waving her hands around, eyes watery. “No, Ma-ma.”

“Just for an hour,” she promised, lifting her out of the high chair. The little girl started protesting, muttering nonsensical words under her breath that sounded strangely like cursing. It was cute. Johnny couldn’t help but smile at her, and as Vanessa carried her away, she waved her little hand at him, saying “Bye, Dada.” He felt his heart nearly bursting at the sight, but with what? Happiness, sadness, horror? All were plausible. How could something so innocent and pure be part of his life? He didn’t deserve her.

When Vanessa returned not five minutes later, he noticed the purple bags under her eyes and the stained T-shirt she was wearing. Her dirty blonde hair was tied back into a messy ponytail that hung over her shoulder, and she wore no make-up, which was unusual. The woman he had married had always wanted to look her best. He supposed motherhood could serve as a reality check, but he wasn’t sure. She just looked worn-out. 

“We need to talk,” she declared, placing her hands on her hips in a stern manner. “First of all, why haven’t you been answering my calls?”

He looked momentarily confused, his face going blank. “Have you been calling?”

“Yes.” She fixed him with a harsh stare, but when he remained unresponsive, she just sighed. “Lily wanted to talk to you. I said you were very busy, but she’s your daughter. You shouldn’t be too busy for her. She should be your number one priority.” 

“She is.” He looked up at her. “She really is.”

“Then act it.”

“I am.”

Vanessa rolled her eyes. “You haven’t been at home at all lately, too busy running around with that Manson rockstar. He isn’t a good person, Johnny! You must wake up.” 

He flinched as he thought about Marilyn. He immediately remembered the cum – the blood – trickling down his thigh. Inside his head, he could see himself pounding into the singer as he whimpered in pain and pleaded with him to stop. He heard him sobbing. It was monstrous, looking back. In that moment of madness, he had been possessed by something, most likely a fucked-up demon lurking inside the dark corners his brain. He wanted to blame the pills he’d taken, but then again, he’d accepted the pills without knowing what they were. Didn’t matter how one chose to see it, he was still to blame. He was still a rapist. 

“I’ve been busy working too,” he heard himself saying. “I’d never go to the US if it wasn’t for work.”

“And what about me?” she demanded, her voice suddenly hoarse. “I’m with her every second of every goddamn day, Johnny. I have a career too. A life.”

“You’re her _mother_,” he pointed out.

“Yes, I’m perfectly aware that I gave birth to her,” she said angrily. “But you’re her _father_. Do you think I’m much more important to her than you are? Or that I don’t wish to have my own life – to see friends every now and then – and to work.”

He didn’t really know what to say. None of the things that went through his mind were particularly helpful, so he just said, “I’m sorry,” giving up. He hadn’t the strength to argue. Maybe he’d end up raping her too. The thought, grim as it was, made him want to throw something. A vase, maybe? He’d throw it at the wall until all his anger had been spilled. But his anger was bottomless, a well, and it was dangerous. It was dangerous because it was aimed at himself. 

“And then there’s the alcohol,” she continued, not at all caring about the half-hearted apology, nor the fact that he looked absolutely crestfallen. “You’ve got to stop drinking so much. The partying isn’t good either, and the drugs…” She all but glared at him. “How do you think all of this will look to her when she’s older?” 

“I’ll stop,” he promised, desperate to get her to back off. “I’ll do anything you ask, Vanessa.”

She frowned, wondering why this was so easy.

“What’s gotten into you?”

He could have laughed at that. It wasn’t that something had gotten into him, but he’d certainly gotten into someone. What a bloody mess he’d made. 

“I agree with you, love. I really do. Lily needs us both. We’re her parents.”

His voice sounded robotic. No emotion to it.

_Is he alright? _he thought to himself, more concerned with Marilyn than with her. _Should I call him? No, Johnny, you idiot. You definitely shouldn’t…_

The petite woman nodded, her eyes letting on that she didn’t quite believe him, but then her lips curved into a pleasant smile. It struck him that he hadn’t seen that smile in ages.

“Perhaps there is hope for us, after all,” she said quietly, putting her delicate hand on top of his. He frowned at how tiny – how undersized, even – that hand seemed. The weight of it was like a feather. And her eyes were too pale and blue, without the darkness of having lived on the edge. Her breasts, small but still there, seemed misplaced to him. Everything about her was just wrong. He tore his hand from her grasp and walked hastily toward his bedroom, which had once served as a home office, and turned the key around, wanting to be left alone. A minute later, he heard her rapping on the door. He didn’t answer. Didn’t open. 

“… You’re being very strange,” she said without sounding concerned. Was she just assuming that he had cheated and didn’t care because she had been cheating too? Had he suspected an affair a year ago, he would have been enraged, but now? No, he wasn’t angry, he just felt empty. There wasn’t any love between them. That love had died some time ago, without any real reason other than them having grown apart, her maturing into a mother and him, well, what could one say? He loved Lily with all his heart, that couldn’t be doubted, but parenthood hadn’t changed him terribly. Vanessa had grown up and he clearly hadn’t. 

“I’m going to bed,” he called out, voice monotone. “I’m unwell.”

She didn’t answer, he just heard her footsteps as she walked down the corridor. In a way, he appreciated her silence. What could she have said anyways?

* * *

Three days later, he snapped out of his daze. He was in the bathtub when it struck him that he couldn’t recall the simplest details from the last three days. Even the incident in Hildesheim was shrouded in a thick mist, and when he attempted to recall how he’d gotten home, he couldn’t. Well, it was only reasonable to assume he’d traveled by plane, but the trip itself? Gone. Gone like the dodo.

_Shock_, he thought. _I’ve been in shock. _

He pretended he wasn’t fazed by how three days of his life had been erased. And because life was the cruelest bitch ever, he could still remember how he had taken Marilyn in that dressing room. All in all, he decided not to think about it. He let Vanessa have a week off, and she’d been pleasantly surprised and had booked the first flight available to Paris. Being alone with Lily wasn’t bad at all. Parenting took his mind off the incident, and there wasn’t a thing he loved more than spending time with his only child. The evenings were often more difficult than the mornings. She went to bed early, leaving him to think freely about the things he shouldn’t be thinking about.

More than once, he dialed Marilyn’s number. He never pressed the call button. Didn’t dare. 

_You’re a coward, Johnny, _he scolded himself, his hand lingering on the receiver. _You should make things right before the wound becomes an ugly scar, and then there’s no chance in hell… _

“It’ll scar anyways,” he muttered to himself, tearing his hand – and mind – away from the phone. 

His mood remained dark, and while he didn’t intend to, he was unnecessarily brusque towards his staff and couldn’t keep his cool. But while his life felt like a thunderstorm, Lily was a ray of sunshine in the midst of all the chaos. The complex simplicity of raising a child was exactly what he had needed, mainly because it was impossible to think of anything but her. If he took his eyes off her for just a second, she was suddenly on the other side of the room, plucking at his guitar or sticking flowers in her mouth. He scolded her with a very light heart, his voice always soft and friendly. Tears could be solved by eating ice cream, restlessness could be solved by going for a walk and grumpiness could be solved by going to bed. All in all, it wasn’t complicated stuff, as long as she wasn’t ill, but it still demanded his full attention and then some. It was perfect.

After ten days, Vanessa returned to the homestead looking like a new woman. Her face glowed with joy as she showered Lily with attention – and gifts, everything from toys to clothes – and pressed kisses against her forehead, saying, “I missed you so much,” over and over. When she spoke to her in French, Lily impressed her father by knowing more words than he did. Not that he knew much. On a good day, he could order a cup of coffee and a croissant without sounding like an idiot. He mostly did sound like an idiot though, his pronunciation far from good.

That evening, as soon as Lily had gone to bed, Vanessa came knocking on his door. 

“Come in, love,” he said absent-mindedly. He was in the middle of rereading a book about Julius Caesar and didn’t feel like being disturbed, especially after having had conversations with Lily all day, which was still mostly just gibberish. It was delightful gibberish, of course, but tiring nonetheless. Besides, his easy-going charm had gone out the window after the incident. People would be better off keeping their distance. 

“You’ve been really wonderful.” She stood in the doorway with her arms crossed. Her hair flowed down her back, and her make-up was flawless, smoky eyes and red lipstick, but her expression felt somewhat underwhelming. The thought made him frown. Since when had he cared about something as silly as make-up?

“Thanks.” He smiled. “I’ve had fun.”

“So have I – especially when I met up with Marie. The mouth on that girl.”

He nodded, letting out a disinterested, “mm.” 

“She could not shut up about her new boyfriend. I think he’s a bit of a bore! We ran into-”

“Sorry,” he said, looking up from his book. “I don’t know these folks, Vanessa. I’m very happy you’ve had your fun though, and I’ll gladly watch Lily again if you want to go back to Paris. Or anywhere else, for the matter.”

She wrinkled her forehead, somewhat taken aback by his bluntness. It was atypical of the Johnny she knew, who had never even raised his voice at her and had been as sweet and caring as they come. The truth was, of course, that she hadn’t seen that guy in a long time. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t see him again, but if they were to reach that summit, they both had to climb.

“Honey,” she said, walking into the room. His desk was so cluttered with stuff, including dirty plates and crumpled sheets of paper, it was impossible to see the surface. The bed hadn’t been made and his suitcase hadn’t been unpacked, almost as if he was just there on vacation. Her eyes landed on him, and the words died on the tip of her tongue as she noticed the pasty skin, the bags under his eyes and the drawn look on his face. His clothes were loose and ill-fitting. He must be sick, she thought, and a kind of sympathy rushed into her heart and softened her.

“Honey,” she said again, her voice low and uncertain. “I know we haven’t been the best of friends lately, but surely it would be best to try and make amends. For our daughter, Johnny.”

He sighed, putting his book aside.

“I’m tired, Vanessa,” he said quietly. “I just want to sit here, read this damn book and get some peace of mind.”

She stared at him in amazement, startled.

“… You haven’t been yourself since you came back from Germany,” she pointed out. “No need to take it out on me, whatever happened.”

His eyes darkened, and she saw that he swallowed, a nervous tick, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“_Nothing _happened,” he said, lowering his eyes to the floor. 

“Nothing?” she repeated. “Then what is the reason for this passive-aggressive behavior?”

Johnny shook his head. “I’m not passive-aggressive. I’m just very, very tired.”

There was a long and awkward pause. Vanessa let out a contemptuous snort and said, “I know something’s going on Johnny – I’m not stupid.” When he didn’t respond, she pursed her lips in disapproval, reading into his silence. He noticed and let out a sigh, annoyed and concerned with where this was going. If he wasn’t careful, it would turn into a stupid fight. He couldn’t really deal with stupid bullshit like that, not when he already had so much to think about. 

“It isn’t at all about you,” he said reassuringly. “Lily stayed up late. Tummy ache.”

At that, her features softened.

“She’s sleeping now,” she informed him. “With George.”

_Oh, George. _He smiled. That was her very beloved teddy bear. If she remembered that she had forgotten her precious George, be it at a café or while she was bathing, she would howl like a lovesick Trent Reznor. Maybe she would grow up to be a musician? He hoped not. That lifestyle wasn’t for her, he decided.

“… Can I sleep here tonight?” she asked, smiling at the unmade bed.

“You’re my wife,” he said calmly. “You needn’t ask.”

_Why did you say that, Johnny? You’re a bloody moron, aren’t you? She wants you to fuck her. _He wasn’t sure he could go through with that. But maybe it would be good for him? He could get his priorities straight, forgetting about his stupid, immature crush – and guilty conscience – and move the fuck on. Only it wasn’t so easy. How so many women could fake it was beyond him. Perhaps they were all better at acting than he was, they just didn’t make a career of it. 

She closed the door and walked up behind him, placing a small hand between his shoulder blades.

“You’re tense,” she murmured softly. The fingers that were now on his shoulders were massaging him at a hard but gentle pace, kneading and rubbing his back with skilled hands. This would normally be a welcome gesture, something a wife would do for her husband, but now? It just felt awkward. And when she pushed his hair over his shoulder, revealing the sensitive skin of his neck, he closed his eyes, wondering how long he could pretend to be into this. She kissed his neck while making stupid ‘mm’ noises that had him rolling his eyes. How come women always assumed foreplay was about moaning like a lovesick whale?

“… Should we move to the bed?” she asked, lips brushing against his skin. 

“Um,” he said, feeling cornered. “Sure.”

She took his hand and dragged him out of his chair and onto the bed, rolling on top of him. Her knees straddled his hips to either side, pinning him beneath her, and her hands were pushing down on his chest, feeling him through the thin fabric of his white linen shirt.

“I want to be on top,” she said, beaming. She was rocking back and forth, thrusting her hips against his. When she didn’t feel his erection poking her through his pants, she raised a brow at him, asking, “Do you want me to help you out a bit more?” Before he could answer the question, she had pulled his pants down and was fondling his limp dick. It wasn’t working. The frown on her face made him pale a little, aware that this wasn’t going to end well. She tried locking her lips around him, her tongue swirling and licking, but no, his dick didn’t want to play. Not with her, at least.

“… I’m sorry,” he said quietly once she gave up. “I can still do you-”

“What happened in Germany?” she asked abruptly, her eyes brimming over with tears.

“I…” His tongue felt thick in his mouth, because indeed, what had happened in Germany? Thinking about it sent jolts of pain through his chest. “Nothing like that,” he lied, his voice hoarse. “I got pretty high.”

“There’s a girl,” she said, now wiping the tears from her eyes. “You shouldn’t lie to me. I found lipstick on the shirt you had thrown in the hamper. And you’ve been so distant, not even answering my calls.” 

He nodded. The make-up had been his own, probably, but she was right in her assumptions.

“Alright,” he said, running a hand through his hair. When their eyes met, he decided to tell her. Decided it’d be better. He drew in a sharp breath before blurting out, “I’m in love with someone else.” The moment he realized what he’d said, his eyes widened in shock. 

_Why on earth did you say that? _He wanted to slap himself silly. Now his life was falling apart for real. The look on Vanessa’s face was that of absolute fury – and then sorrow. 

“And you’ve been keeping me in the dark all this time?” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

“I hoped it’d go away,” he told her, letting out a deep, stuttering sigh. “I don’t want to ruin our marriage. So I didn’t act on those feelings.”

_Liar_, he told himself. _Liar, liar, liar! _

Her jaw tightened. Without looking at him, she said, “I wasn’t faithful either. I was with… I was with a man some nights while you were in America.” She glanced up at him, her eyelids swollen and red. “But I came to my senses, Johnny. For our daughter’s sake." 

The actor drummed his fingers on his thigh, at a loss for words. “I’m not mad,” he said after some time, finding that he wasn’t really feeling anything. Apathy, maybe. It wasn’t like he hadn’t expected her to come clean at some point. If your husband ignores you, it’s only normal to want someone else to touch you. No, he couldn’t berate her for having needs, especially when he hadn’t been there to fulfill his duties as a husband. And apart from a piece of paper, nothing about their lives witnessed about them being in a committed relationship. 

“I’m not mad, Vanessa,” he repeated, voice monotone. “I just don’t know what to say.” 

She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, now sniffling. “That makes it worse, Johnny.” 

He nodded. “It probably does.”

“Who’s the girl?” she wanted to know. “Someone I’ve met?” 

“No.” She had never met his Marilyn, after all. Not that he would ever be his.

“I can’t believe it,” she said, letting out a pained laugh. “Poor Lily.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. _Poor Lily._

An uncomfortable silence descended over them as Vanessa stood up from the bed, adjusting her clothes and combing her fingers through her now messy hair. She stood with her back to him for a couple of minutes, still sniffling, and Johnny did nothing. When she finally turned around to face him, she said, “This wouldn’t have hurt so much if I wasn’t still in love with you.” 

The actor felt a sharp pang of guilt about the admittance. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that she still loved him. 

“I… I’m so sorry.” 

“Yeah,” she whispered, her lips twitching. “I bet you are.”

She left after that, shutting the door behind her, though without slamming it shut like he had expected her to. It made him feel as though this was final. She wouldn’t try to climb into bed with him again, only to feel humiliated by the fact that his dick didn’t respond to her touch anymore. In all fairness, if it hadn’t been for the incident, he probably would’ve gotten hard. But sex was now tied to guilt, and he hadn’t even been touching himself. He couldn’t.

In the morning, Vanessa wasn’t there. Lily wasn’t there either. A note on his door said, ‘We’re staying with friends in Paris for a couple of days. Sort yourself out in the meantime.’ There was an elusive threat in those words. If he didn’t choose them over the ‘girl’ he had a crush on, he wouldn’t get to see his child. Well, a judge would decide what would be best, of course, but didn’t they usually rule in favor of the mother? He’d have to contact his lawyer about that. Not yet though.

_Heartbreak on top of heartbreak_, he thought as he watched the empty crib, the milky scent of her skin still lingering in the room. Some months ago, he had painted the walls pink – and had decorated it with pirates – and he had bought the crib without Vanessa’s help. All the furniture, actually. She had claimed that he was no good at interior design, and he had accepted the challenge. Sure, she would have done a better job, but it would’ve been much more of a princess inspired bedroom, and he didn’t want her to be a princess. He wanted an Olympe de Gouges, not a Marie Antoinette.

He walked over to the crib, lifting the small duvet up under his nose and relishing the smell. There was a soft thud as George the teddy bear fell down on the floor. That was enough to finally release the tears that had been waiting for so long, and as he cried, he hugged George, hoping Lily wasn’t missing him so much she couldn’t sleep.

_Is this karma? _He didn’t know, but it sure felt like it. It felt like hell.


	6. Welcome to My Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the assault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter. It felt very genuine, and I guess it is. 
> 
> Comments are appreciated <3

September 4, 2001

Los Angeles, California 

The house looked exactly the same as before. There were the white arched windows, the wrought-iron railings, the decorative columns and the tiled driveway, and – at the back – the large, rounded pool. Inside, the bedroom hadn’t changed either, the red carpet leading to the bed still fuzzy and warm under his feet, and the bedlinen was fresh and smelled of roses. On top of the bed were the huge pillows, ridiculously soft, and last night, when he’d returned from the airport, home for the first time in months, he’d fallen asleep the second his head had touched the pillow. Tonight, however, he felt as if he were becoming more alert by the minute, the large wall clock showing 01:44, and last time he’d looked, it’d showed 01:36 and 01:19 before that. As he glared at the damn thing, he started to get this feeling that although everything looked the same, nothing really was, nor would it ever be again. It freaked him the fuck out, making his heart beat faster and faster until all he heard was _ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum _and he was bathing in a pool of cold sweat.

_… The hell is going on? _

As he shifted on the bed, trying to get comfy, his hair got stuck under his shoulder. He tried to move, which resulted in him painfully tugging at the strands of hair, and it was like a light switch had clicked on. His brain felt like it was being sucked into a blender, and he wasn’t in his bed anymore, the smell of chlorine and sweat lingering in his nostrils while a band played in the background. The sheets were hands grasping at him, strong hands, and from somewhere deep inside, he heard that unmistakable voice telling him, _‘You want this.’_

He grabbed at the sheets, dug his hands in until his fingertips felt numb. The chanting vibration of _ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum _in his head, his chest, his every vein grew louder and more suffocating, pressing down on his body like heavy rocks, and he felt like he was being pinned down, pushed down into the mattress, his limbs frozen in place.

Inside his head, all he could think was, _Fuck, fuck, fuck-_

A loud crash sounded from outside. It abruptly ended the, well, what? – the daydream? He didn’t know what it’d been, just that it’d been fucking awful. Another crash sliced through the air. He lay stiff as a corpse for a second, pricking up his ears, but after another second or two, everything had gone back to normal, the only sound being that of traffic. The street below was busy, after all, but the sound of cars passing by wasn’t disruptive, just homely, and all was calm and normal behind the four walls of his house. Calm and normal, normal and calm.

_Must’ve been a raccoon, _he thought, trying to talk himself into believing that everything was okay. _They’ve overturned the trash cans again, like fucking always, so stop being such a stupid cunt and get some rest! _

But he couldn’t sleep. Every cell was on high alert. Sighing, he got up from the bed and opened one of the windows to peer out into the darkness, seeing, of course, nothing out of the ordinary, just the lamp posts along the wall and a couple of birds down on the grass.

_You’re just being paranoid, _he told himself, and yet as he closed the window and walked down to the kitchen, he felt as if eyes were locked on him, the eyes of the night itself. Shuddering, he opened the fridge and found the bottle of wine he’d started on earlier that evening with the intention of finishing it. He sat down in the garden, feeling safe as the whole estate was enclosed with walls and no one could get in unnoticed. Still, being out there felt odd. He had this weird feeling he was watching himself sitting by the pool in his robe, nestling a glass of wine in his hand, half-watching the scenery; but in truth, he was simply too scared to go back to bed, scared of not being able to fall asleep. 

_But I know why_, he thought grimly, shifting uncomfortably on the chair. His asshole was sore beyond belief, and no matter what he did, how he sat, laid, stood, he felt that burning sensation.

_I know who’s to blame. _He swallowed thickly, and for a moment, he rolled the glass around between his fingers, watching the velvety red liquid coat the sides. _I know who_, his inner voice chimed again as he took a sip of the too cool wine.

_… Myself_, he thought angrily, _because I was being a stupid cunt, a coward. Should’ve fought him. He’s a midget. I could’ve beaten him to a pulp had I wanted to. Could’ve smashed his pretty face in._

_But I didn’t. I didn’t… because he’s…_

_… Johnny, he’s Johnny. _He bit down on his lip, wanting to scream.

“Johnny,” he whispered into the night, and the name alone brought on a huge wave of nausea accompanied by sorrow, a sort of mournful disbelief that Johnny, his pal, could’ve fucked him bloody and raw while he screamed like a dying animal. In a way, it wasn’t consistent with his reality, which made it difficult to understand that it was the one and same person, Johnny his friend and Johnny his r… _No_. He squeezed his eyes shut. That was a word he couldn’t think of, not even to himself in the darkest hours of the night. He wasn’t a stupid girl who’d been molested by some guy who didn’t get how sex worked. He was Marilyn Manson, and Marilyn Manson isn’t subjected to… _that_. Again, he avoided that word, that humiliating word that, in his mind, only applied to women who couldn’t fight back, women who couldn’t stand up to a big, brawly guy.

_But I’m still angry with the idiot, the no-good piece of trash, for what he did._

Anger transformed his face. He trembled with it. 

_He deserves a piece of my mind. Deserves to hear what a lowlife he is! _

He fished out his phone and dialed +33 4 75 88 51, his finger hovering over the call button for a long, long time.

“… No,” he whispered, and then, in one jerky movement, he threw his phone into the pool, screaming, “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

The second he sprang up from the lounger, the glass fell down from the armrest, shattering as it came into contact with the hard marble floor. The silence that followed was humongous, ear-splitting almost, and Brian, who was trembling with anxiety, just stared at the red puddle and pieces of broken glass, his eyes wet with unshed tears.

_What’s wrong with me? _He wrinkled his forehead, his breath coming out in harsh gasps as he hid his face in his hands, desperately trying to calm himself down, trying to stop whatever reaction he was having. Although there wasn’t a single clear thought going through his head, at least not on a conscious level, he heard this loud nothingness ringing in his ears, a constant wind howling. But it wasn’t a sound as much as it was a feeling, and that feeling lingered in his limbs, making him on edge, making him claw at his own skin, fingernails leaving marks. 

_… What is this? What is this?_

He walked back inside and nearly tripped over his own two feet as he dashed up the stairs to the tower, up the atelier, and he quickly found that bottle of absinthe he’d been hiding for a special occasion, and while this wasn’t the kind of ‘special’ he’d been preparing for, it still was undeniably special in all its morbid glory. Uncapping it, he drank swiftly, hungrily, hoping it’d sedate his nerves and quiet his blood to sleep. But even as he waited for the alcohol to do its trick, he knew it wasn’t enough.

“Fuck,” he said again, and he suddenly felt that red-hot anger welling up again, like he wanted to smash and break everything in his way, a whirlwind of rage, but he reasoned with himself that he’d already drowned his phone, which hadn’t helped, and no amount of aggression would lift the weight off his shoulders. Instead, he put on a record, a random Bowie record that’d waited for him, and as the sound of his voice, a husky purr in the night, filled the room and his brain, he relaxed. As his muscles untensed, he leaned backward against the wall and sipped on the bottle and watched the paintings, the paintings from a different time, a time before this tour, and again came that overwhelming feeling that all had changed. Even the Bowie song wouldn’t be the same, not after this.

_… And it comes from the deepest layer of hell that resides within me._

_A gift from Abel to Cain. But we all know how that fairy tale ends – don’t we? _

The singer let out a drunken hiccup, willing away his every thought, needing his skull to be wiped clean, bleached. Then he snuggled up against the wall. He eventually fell asleep like that, with his head against the wall and the near-empty bottle on the floor next to him, dripping green on the carpet while Bowie sang to him, his very own sandman, and when he later awoke with a start, he dragged himself down the stairs and into the bed, and the wall clock showed 05:11. Before he fell asleep for the second time that night, he stuffed the spare duvet between his long legs and hugged it with his arms, snuggling into its softness. A dream swallowed him up, a dream about the neighbor back in Canton who had molested him by squeezing his dick, saying it was part of a ‘prison game’, corporal punishment, and he’d broken down in tears, as kids do, in front of his mom. It was a long night, and everything about it was wrong, so bone-chillingly wrong.

* * *

Slowly, his eyes blinked open. The wall clock showed 11:09, though the curtains kept the darkness in, at least most of it, which was good because he wasn’t a fan of the sun. Groaning, he untangled himself from the two duvets, one stuffed between his legs and the other cocooned around his body. Once he stood on the floor, he started looking for his phone. When he remembered that it was at the bottom of the pool, dead in its wet grave, he heaved a sigh of annoyance, raking his hands through his hair, asking himself whether he’d been delirious or psychotic, or maybe just jetlagged. 

_… Or none._

Determined to put a lid on it, he went with the jetlag explanation, and indeed, his eyelids felt very heavy as he plodded his way into the bathroom, his brain sluggish. He began to disrobe, assuring himself that a nice, warm bath would be enough to restore his sense of self, and truth be told, he didn’t feel much like himself. It was as if the last three days had stripped him of this huge chunk of his personality, and consequently, the world had become a hollowed out copy of itself, an imitation.

_Strange how jetlag can do that to you_, he thought bitterly.

As he stepped inside the shower, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. There were bruises, bruises on his wrists, hips and waist. Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, he balled his hands into tight fists, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip. He stood like that for a long time before he could get himself to turn on the tap. Hot water sluiced down over him, nipping at his black and blue bruises, splashing and washing down the drain. His asshole hurt like a bitch, almost like he’d had explosive diarrhea for a week, and he gasped, pain ripping through him, unbearable in that it reminded him of his ordeal, and fuck, he couldn’t waltz around it anymore, couldn’t ignore how the pain surging through him testified to the trauma his body had been put through. And yet he couldn’t think about it, couldn’t afford to. 

_‘Say you want it, Marilyn,’ _echoed a voice inside his head, a voice dripping with malice. _‘Say you want me to fuck you.’_

_‘No.’_

Brian caught his breath sharply as though he’d been hit in the chest, a strange, desperate sound between a sob and a gasp.

A knock on the door made him jump slightly, his heart leaping into his throat. He hesitated, and through the door, he heard the muffled voice of a woman – his mother? He wasn’t sure.

“Yes, yes,” he managed through clenched teeth as he turned off the shower. “Gimme a second, alright?” 

He stepped out of the cubicle and draped an oversized towel around himself, covering him up from his shoulders to just above his ankles. The mirror was fogged up, but he didn’t need to see in order to know that his hair was a royal mess, sticking to his neck like it’d been glued in place. He also knew that his eyes were red and puffy, and if he was extra lucky, there’d be some nice purplish bags under them to match his countless bruises. Fashionable as always, wasn’t he?

“Briiiian,” his mother called out from the other side of the door, knocking impatiently. If it hadn’t been for the key in the lock, she would’ve barged in unashamedly, being a bit intrusive, at least where her only child was concerned. “Hello, Brian? It’s just me!”

He opened the door and growled, “I was taking a shower, Mom,” sounding unreasonably grumpy. But him being who he was, that wasn’t really unusual. She beamed up at him and drew him into her arms, not at all minding that he was soaking wet and only clad in a towel. No, he’d been away for months and months. She’d missed him terribly, as mothers do, and now that he was with her, nothing in the world could’ve kept her from hugging him.

“You look tired,” she immediately commented, her brows snapping together. “And thin. Jesus, don’t they have food in Europe?”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I ate like a pig. Being on tour is fucking exhausting though – and chaotic, so I won’t apologize for skipping breakfast.” _And drinking some absinthe instead, just to get through the day. _

“… Goodness,” she gasped. “What’s that?”

She took a hold of his hand. He immediately winced, pain shooting up his arm.

“Oh, it hurts?” she asked, concern lacing her words. He rolled his eyes. She sure liked fretting over him like he was a toddler and not a grown man, something she’d probably do for as long as she lived.

“They… oh, they’re fingerprints,” she continued to say, her lips twitching. “Someone grabbed you?” 

“It’s nothing.”

“… What happened?” she demanded, her eyes suddenly full of motherly rage, meaning she wanted to maul someone’s face, and in this case, that someone was whoever had manhandled her baby boy. 

“Uh, some guy – a crazy fan, I guess – jumped me after a show,” he heard himself say, and the moment the lie passed his lips, he felt horrified. “I just let the bodyguards deal with him. Nothing to worry about though, alright? Shit like that is part of the job, at least when you’re out in public. I’m just sorry I didn’t punch his lights out myself” – at least that wasn’t a lie – “but that would’ve been a shitstorm of bad publicity, so yeah, I let other people deal with it.” 

She nodded solemnly, letting go of his hands. 

“I’m sorry that happened to you, sweetheart.”

“It’s fine.”

_Only nothing’s really fine. _He gazed down at his wrists, at the purplish marks that had bloomed on his skin like flowers of evil, ugly reminders of… him. His touch. 

“Your father’s downstairs,” the blonde told him, and then she smiled warmly, appreciatively. “We’ve missed you so much, sweetheart. You could’ve answered our calls – we called you all morning.” In her mind, morning lasted from 4 a.m. to 8 a.m. and she’d called around that time. Again, he remembered that his phone had died and flinched. Not that he’d been awake to answer his phone anyway, but remembering his little outburst at around 2 a.m. filled him with apprehension, reminding him of how something was very wrong, something inside his head, a malfunctioning little lump of gray matter.

“Now, you put on some clothes, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, closing the door to towel himself dry.

About three seconds later, there was another knock. 

“We’ll stay the night, if that’s alright with you? Oh, and I’d like to change the sheets right away.”

“The sheets in the guestroom are clean!”

“You’d think that they were,” she called back, her tone of voice speaking for her, saying something along the lines of, ‘I-don’t-believe-in-professional-cleaners,’ something she proved by adding, “I brought my own sheets – and I’ll do your laundry later!” 

At that, he shook his head. His pig-headedness had come from somewhere, and it wasn’t that she was a generally distrustful person, but she was a neat freak and _needed _to know the sheets had been properly washed. He heard her leave, the bedroom door closing with a soft thud. Then came the silence. He got dressed in a hurry, not wanting to get devoured by that silence once more.

* * *

While his mother whirled around the house like a tornado, busying herself with motherly pursuits such as cleaning and cooking, his father was nowhere to be seen and had probably made himself scarce, knowing when he wasn’t wanted. Brian got the hint as well, and for a moment, as she ran around with the vacuum cleaner, he pictured what life would’ve been like had he been a Brienne and not a Brian. The first thing that came to mind were kids, brown-eyed and with freckles, and then a house in the deepest, darkest suburbs of Ohio. He shuddered and praised some deity he hadn’t been born with a cunt, though he’d already tested out a pair of tits, two 600 ml implants to be exact, during his time as Omega.

He found his father down by the pool. The sigh made him come to a halt just above the steep stairs leading to the pool area. Clad in a wife beater and a pair of brown shorts, his old man sat down and relaxed back in one of the loungers to indulge himself in the California sun. Just next to him, by one of the other four rattan loungers, was the shards of glass and the puddle of dried red wine.

_Fuck. _He turned white as a ghost. _Well, this is bad._

Hugh must’ve felt him staring. He turned around and, shielding his eyes with one hand, called out, “Son! Get down here, will you?”

His mother suddenly came up behind him, saying, “Brian, dear, would you give this to Dad?” and handed him a bottle of sunblock. Above the sunglasses she wore, her forehead shone with a light sheen of sweat, having already worn herself out by cleaning up after the housemaid. “I know he doesn’t burn easily,” she continued, sensing his confusion, “but we found this strange mole on his back, and Dr. Andy says it could very well be-”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll give it to him,” the singer said hastily, cutting her short. He didn’t want to hear about strange moles.

“It’s probably nothing,” she assured him.

“Let’s hope so. Don’t you want to go for a swim, Mom?” 

“I’ve got some dirty dishes to wash, but I’ll join you boys in a minute.” She smiled endearingly at him, touching his arm briefly. In reality, ‘a minute’ was probably more like forty-five minutes. Whenever she visited, the germaphobe in her had to clean everything. – every toilet, every surface – before she could as much as consider sitting down with a book or magazine. “Oh, and silly me, I actually bought this really expensive bikini the other day – you wouldn’t believe how nice the saleslady was. Anyway, I didn’t get a chance to wear it yet. There was something funky going on with the pool – wouldn’t get clean, I tell you. Someone’s coming over to have a look at it on Friday, I believe, so we’ll get out of your hair by then.”

“… You don’t have to clean the house,” he told her as she turned around to fetch the bucket she’d left by the door. “I’m as paranoid as you, Mom, and I sure as hell didn’t hire dimwitted monkeys to clean up after me. They’re professionals.”

She huffed.

“I found _dirt_, honey.” 

He shrugged and walked down the stairs, not too interested in chitchatting about moles, bikinis or housecleaning.

_I just need some time to unwind, _he told himself, assured himself, because if he could just unwind, he’d be fine. 

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the soles of his feet burned from the overheated wood. Palm trees surrounded the pool, offering some shade during the day when the sun was, for the lack of a better word, unbearable. But he wasn’t on tour and didn’t have to look pale as a sheet. Besides, he’d already smeared his skin with sunblock, the brand intended for children, and would, if anything, achieve an ugly tan color better suited for beach bimbos. 

His father was resting with his eyes closed, sighing as the warm rays of the sun soaked into his body. Brian noticed, with a start, that his water damaged phone was on the small table next to his lounger. 

“… Dad? Mom says you need this.”

Hugh cracked one eye open. When he saw the sunblock, he snorted, seemingly having forgotten all about Dr. Andy and the suspicious looking mole, and said, “What’s she on about? In this family, it’s you and Barb who get sunburnt all the time, like Brits on holiday.” He said the latter part under his breath, almost like ‘Brit’ was a bad word. Still, he sat up and grabbed the bottle, squirting a little bit into his hands. 

“You’ve got that northern skin, the bunch of you,” he grumbled while rubbing sunblock over his arms and shoulders.

“Sure.”

“Oh, and what the hell happened to your phone, Son?”

“… I was drunk,” he said, his voice tight.

“And messing about in the pool? That’s one way to go.” He frowned disapprovingly as he said this, and something in his eyes told Brian he didn’t really buy it. “A very unpleasant way to go, as you can imagine, losing sense of what’s up and what’s down before slowly suffocating.”

“Don’t be so fucking dramatic.”

“A lot of drunkards go that way.” 

“Well, I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.”

His father let out a somewhat strained laugh. It turned into a coughing fit, his lungs charred from thirty years of smoking cigarettes.

“So,” he began, giving him a quick once-over, “your mother said someone beat you up after a show?” He didn’t really need to ask about it; the bruises told a silent but graphic tale about what had transpired overseas. He wore a robe over his swim trunks, but it was open at the front, revealing bruised skin, or more specifically, unsightly scratch marks and fingerprints. And when he saw it himself, it was too late to hide it. Cursing himself inwardly for his own lack of discretion, he tied the robe tightly at the waist and forced his legs to walk over to one of the loungers, sitting down on it with his head turned away, his eyes closed.

“… I’ve seen a few things in my life,” Hugh said, and Brian knew what he meant. “Had some crazy dude attacked you, you would’ve had a broken nose and a black eye, maybe a split lip – scars on your knuckles from landing a punch,” he continued, and the conclusion was already in the air between them, polluting it. Hugh didn’t push for a response; he waited patiently, hoping Brian would come clean all on his own. His eyes were expectant though, searching his face for clues, for the final piece of the puzzle that’d show him the full picture, but all he saw was blankness, a kind of resigned apathy that, had he looked closely enough, he would’ve recognized from Nam.

He cleared his throat. When Brian jerked his gaze to his face, he raised his bushy eyebrows. 

“… I’m not seeing any of those injuries, Son.”

“I know,” the younger man said quietly, dragging his tongue over his lip.

“And?”

“And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That I can understand,” Hugh said. “But tell me you beat the crap out of that other dude.”

“I did,” he answered flatly. After that, they were both silent. Hugh had a dip in the pleasantly warm water, swimming back and forth, back and forth, never tiring of the monotony of his routine, an old soldier at heart. The singer watched from under the shade of one of the palm trees. In his father, he saw his own future, he thought, as they were physically similar. Had they been the same age, people would’ve assumed they were twin brothers. It was thus reasonable to think he’d morph into his dad in twenty years’ time, complete with a beer belly, a chronic cough and glasses.

_I should get in shape_, he told himself. _Karate, maybe? Then I could’ve given him the beating of his life. _

_… Johnny. _

He rubbed his forehead like he suspected the approach of a migraine. Thinking of the actor brought on pangs of loneliness, of inexplicable guilt. But he shouldn’t be missing him, no, he should be fantasizing about killing him with his bare hands.

… Only he wasn’t. 

Barbara walked down the stairs about forty minutes later. She wore a red bikini that covered up more than most bathing suits, the bottom part high-waisted and the upper part covering her entire chest, save for a heart just above the cleavage. It was a fashionable look without being too daring, and she looked every bit the chic southern woman she was, especially with the new hairdo, short and freshly dyed. For as long as he could remember, she’d kept it her natural color, medium blonde, but now it was ‘porn blonde’. It looked good on her, he thought, and he told her as much, saying, “I like the new look, Mom – truly a Southern Belle in the flesh if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Oh, you’re such a sweetheart,” she said, smiling widely at the kind words.

“That’s why I married her,” Hugh said. “Too bad you didn’t inherit any of those good genes.”

“He’s dashing,” she said, slapping her husband playfully across the arm. He caught her hand, interlacing their fingers in a cute display of affection as though they were no older than seventeen.

“Why, thank you for the compliment, Barb." 

“Oh, Hugh.”

She giggled like a little girl. The singer rolled his eyes, not too interested in this lovey-dovey stuff better suited for private moments, moments to be spent far away from his house – and his eyes. 

“Hey, aren’t you going for a swim, Mom?”

She nodded. “Yes, of course. It’s been a while.”

“Good thing the pool’s getting fixed on Friday.”

“Mom told me about that.”

“Living here, one must have a pool,” the blonde commented, and he detected something in her voice, a trace of sadness perhaps, sad to be so far away from Canton. But back in Canton, and later Florida, she’d apparently been so homesick for _him _that she’d barely slept, had cried a lot and had called him every day, which, after some time, had lost its charm, and he’d just bought them a house nearby, a nice place in a quiet area with plenty of seniors. She’d been grateful but occasionally missed her friends and family, at least those she still talked to. Brian hadn’t ever really missed anyone, maybe Chad, his cousin, but then again, he was the black sheep of the family, successful or not. His mother wasn’t a freak like him, so she often wept when she felt isolated from the world she knew back home. 

_Understandable_, he thought, watching her as she got up from the lounger and removed her sunglasses, stashing them away in her purse. She walked over to the pool, standing there for a while as the tiles warmed her feet. With a start, she remembered she hadn’t put on sunblock and turned around, and that’s when he noticed the shards of broken glass and the large red stain. She exclaimed, “Oh!” and put on her sandals, not wanting to slice her foot open. The singer bit down on his lip and started to restlessly jiggle his legs, feeling nervous. How he wished he hadn’t overreacted last night, killing his phone and smashing the glass. The hell had gotten into him? 

_I’m jetlagged, _he reminded himself. _And I’m a fucking mess after all these months on the road. _

“Brian, where do you keep the dustpan?” she asked while eying the shards of glass like they were her enemy.

“I’ve no idea.”

Sighing, she walked back up the stairs, telling herself that no one should have to step on glass.

“… I know something’s up,” Hugh commented. “You’re all skittish. And those bruises…”

“Stop fussing over me." 

“Son…” The older man stared at him with a worried look on his face. “I can tell someone did something much worse than just beat you up. Did they rob you? Look, I know you’re a proud guy – like me – but heck, whatever you say, it’ll stay between you and me. You know that, and you know just as well that I won’t tell Mom. It’ll just shake her up, and we don’t need that.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Instead, he rose to his feet and walked over to the pool, quickly slipped out of the black robe, which he dropped carelessly down on the tiles, before diving in with a splash. Swimming was something he’d always enjoyed, but the chlorine was like salt in his wounds and every second was hell. Still, he didn’t get out until much later, stubbornly insisting, at least in their company, that he was perfectly fine, perfectly healthy. The fact that his father had seen right through him like one sees through water going down the drain, he ignored. Whatever he thought had happened to his son, an attempted kidnapping or a sex game gone wrong, wasn’t anywhere near the truth, and no matter what his father imagined, it wouldn’t be anywhere near the truth. The truth was, after all, so far-fetched, no one would even dare think the thought, no one but Jeordie, and Jeordie, thank God, wouldn’t tell a living soul. 

* * *

By the time evening rolled around, Brian was tired as hell. They sat in the living room, his father three shades tanner than he’d been that morning and his mother pink as a peach, her Germanic ancestry not exactly designed for LA weather conditions. Still, she was beaming with joy, thoroughly pleased he wasn’t abroad anymore and she could stuff his mouth full of home-made treats. Today’s dinner was lasagna followed by Tiramisu, the Americanized versions.

The living room was dark. In front of the utterly useless fireplace, its only purpose being decorative, was an antique five-piece lounge suite that had apparently once belonged to a certain Mr. Poe, something Brian sincerely doubted but had made the purchase regardless. The leather upholstery, though cracked and faded with age, had been oiled and seemed to glow under the yellow light of the chandelier, which had come with the house and was outrageously overdone, its crystal pieces shaped to resemble flowers and leaves. But it was apparently priceless – and certainly not in sentimental value – so it had to stay.

Barb wore a light summer dress of pale pink with half sleeves and a pair of white sandals. She was skimming through a magazine one of his girlfriends had left behind, or rather one of the girls he’d banged and never called, and hummed softly to herself when she found something particularly juicy. Hugh sat next to her, clad in a standard white shirt and khaki shorts. He wore thick-rimmed glasses on his face, and his gaze was fixed on the TV. It was yet another World War II documentary, and Brian, who wasn’t fond of gossip magazines or WW2 documentaries, was writing and rewriting a text message on his brand-new phone, a shitty Nokia that would have to do for now, at least until he could get his hands on the newest BlackBerry.

**_To: +33 4 75 88 51_**

** _ From: Brian Warner_ **

** _ Date: September 5, 2001 21:39_ **

** _ Subject: Fuck you_ **

** _You should watch your back. Pissing off someone like me is like throwing a match into a gas tank, and I’m not going to take legal action against you, I’m going to hire someone to <strike>throw fucking acid in your face so you’ll never get hired again (unless Burton wants you to play the monster you are). </strike>_ **

Sighing, he deleted what he’d written, recognizing that his anger was about as useful as a fireplace in LA. 

“Hugh,” his mother said kindly. He grunted in response, turning the volume down.

“Hugh, we ought to go to bed.”

“What? Hitler hasn’t even invaded Poland yet,” he complained.

“It isn’t like you don’t know how it all ended, honey.”

Brian cracked a smile at the good-natured bickering. It was a glimpse into the past, of the duplex in Canton. 

“We won,” she continued, snatching the remote control from under his nose. “Hitler died in his bunker with Eva Braun, that poor girl. The Allies celebrated – and bombed all of Dresden, come to think of it, and the world was never the same after that.”

“… Hitler and Eva were kind of like a fucked-up version of Romeo and Juliet,” Brian mused to himself, his voice so low they couldn’t hear.

“And now we’re here, about to go to bed, and we’re not living in Nazi-Germany. End of story.” 

Disgruntled, Hugh let his head drop back against the armchair and gave a long-suffering sigh. Barbara switched off the TV, put the magazines away and then carried some empty glasses into the kitchen. With her gone, Hugh got up, though slowly, his knees aching.

“Women,” he said and huffed, but his eyes were gleaming with mirth, amused and not at all angry with her for essentially ruining his evening. Brian thought he certainly lived up to the image of a docile old man, but he also knew his old man was much more than meets the eye, abundantly supplied with qualities such as brains, bravado and, unlike his son, the ability to remain calm. If he exploded into shouts and name-calling, Barb would be hurt, and if Barb’s feelings were hurt, their marriage would suffer. He didn’t want that, being very fond of his wife and their companionship. So he let her be the boss.

“… Doesn’t matter how hard you fall for someone,” he said, thinking about his young years, “a marriage always turns into companionship.” 

“I’ll never get married,” Brian said, thinking about Rose. All he’d gotten out of it was a tiny scar on his eyelid.

“Marriage is just a piece of paper and a fancy name. As long as you live with someone with a pair of tits and large tear ducts, it’s a marriage alright.”

Unamused, the singer nodded.

“And you don’t choose them; they choose you.” 

“I should just get a cat instead,” Brian said half-jokingly. 

“Oh, a cat?” his mother chirped with the glee of a child, suddenly appearing in the doorway clad in a white robe and fluffy slippers. “Yes, I can definitely see a cat living in this house. The garden is huge, after all, and you’re such a calm person. You need your quiet time, don’t you, dear?” She smiled, looking at him as though he were the reincarnation of Christ, loving him more fiercely than she’d ever loved her God. “I think dogs are too loud and demanding, you know? Aleusha was a sweet dog, of course, but you were young and lively, and now, with such a busy sche-”

“I’m not getting a dog, no.”

She quieted, sensing the hard edge in his voice. 

“No, of course not, dear.” 

“Well, we ought to go to bed, Barb,” Hugh said, sensing that Brian’s patience was paper thin after a long day. Barb had insisted on tagging along to the mall to get him a new phone, and after that, they’d gone for a walk by the sea, buying ice cream and watching the scenery. He’d recognized that she had needed some quality time with him, but now, after a full day, he was fed up.

“Yes,” she said in a small voice. 

Hugh grabbed her hand, giving it a squeeze.

“Barb,” he began to say, seeing the hurt in her eyes. “I think Brian could use a little time to himself. He’s been on the road for four months. God knows I’d be tired after four months of traveling. Bet your bum’s probably sore from all the airline seats and bus seats.”

Upon hearing that, something so accurate and inaccurate at the same time, he looked like he’d been shot, his skin draining of all color. He folded his arms across his chest in a protective manner, shielding himself.

“He does look unwell,” his mother commented, worried.

“Jetlag,” Brian whispered.

“… Oh, of course. Silly me didn’t think of that. I’m not a woman of the world, after all.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mom.”

She walked over to him and embraced him warmly, motherly, saying, “Goodnight, sweetheart,” and he leaned in, allowing himself to be held, babied, because for once in his life, he suspected he needed it. From the other side of the room, his father observed them. Hugh was an ex-soldier who’d seen a lot, and he liked to think he wasn’t a complete idiot. He knew something was up, something Barb was blind to, thinking the world was a kinder place than it was. Brian had probably been brutally attacked, and being the proud bastard he was, he wouldn’t confide in them. Maybe he’d been robbed? The thought troubled him greatly. It made him want to skin the unknown perpetrator alive. 

“Goodnight,” Brian said, and then his old folks disappeared up the stairs, leaving him to the unbearable silence. 

When he eventually went to bed that night, the clock showed 3:59 a.m. He’d almost relapsed because he couldn’t deal with the sleeplessness, but after finishing a bottle of vodka on his own, the sandman finally showed up. The clock showed 08:03 a.m. when his mother knocked on the door, entered and drew the curtains aside to reveal the beautiful garden below. And freakishly enough, a bleak light filled the room, bleak because the sky was gray with clouds. As she stood there, telling him to get up, rain began to drizzle down on LA, and in that moment, it hit him like a ton of bricks over the head, making him shiver to the bone. 

_… I’ve been abused. I’ve been-_

“Did you have sweet dreams?” she asked, watching him intently.

“… I didn’t really dream about anything,” he told her, and he was beginning to wonder – to hope – that maybe this was all a nightmare he hadn’t yet awoken from, but as the day wore on, he knew it was wishful thinking, and no matter how many times he tried pinching himself, the world stayed the same, changed in every way and yet the same. It was worse than any horror movie he’d ever watched. It was crippling. It was belittling. It was being caught in a never-ending nightmare. And when his parents left the house to go back home again, he felt that silence wrapping itself around him, suffocating him.


	7. Deflowered Dead Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brian's still struggling to come to terms with the abuse. But something has to happen.

September 29, 2001

Los Angeles, California

Small, thin and with oversized ears, the feline sleeping on the stack of newspapers appeared more pixieish than kittenish, suggesting that she was perhaps an aspiring God of Mischief and not your average sleepy couch potato. From what he’d read about the breed – Devon Rex – he wasn’t wrong in thinking so. They were sneaky and smart, always out for a snack and some love, and that, he thought, suited him just fine. She was still just a kitten though, a little darling who didn’t quite understand that this strange new house was to be her home. For the duration of the day, she’d stayed in his bedroom, scared silly after the long car ride and the change of environment. He’d tried being as overbearing as he could be, but she’d cried noisily nonetheless, screaming for her mother to come save her from the spooky stranger who smelled of leather and soap. But for now, she was sound asleep, curled into a tight ball on top of the stack of newspapers. 

“… Oddball,” he told her, smiling. She hadn’t liked her new bed much, though the cushions were soft and all her new toys were in there. No, the old newspapers intended for house-training were much, much better.

_Such a sassy, stubborn girl_, he thought to himself, already loving her. Because she was the purest little thing he’d ever seen, though as loud and obnoxious as any other woman he’d encountered in his life, he’d named her Lily White. There was something about him and flowers. First Rose, now Lily. But unlike his ex-fiancée, she’d be someone to come home to. Someone who didn’t mind the scent of a stranger’s perfume, lipstick smudges or the unsavory smell of alcohol and sweat as he collapsed on the bed after a concert, too tired to take a shower.

The cat, although in kitty la-la-land, shifted restlessly on her makeshift bed, probably dreaming.

“Don’t worry, honey,” he whispered to the white, fury being, “I’m not leaving you.”

She farted in her sleep. Brian laughed.

_Cats. _He smiled. _I’ve always had a thing for them. Never thought I’d get a white one. _

She had been a gift from his mother. After the tour had ended, his parents had stayed at his place a couple of days, spending some quality time together to make up for all the months he’d been abroad. His mood had been the stuff of nightmares though. In the end, his mother and father had exchanged worried looks and had naturally reached the conclusion that he wasn’t happy. And the remedy? A cat. A white cat. His mother had already dubbed her ‘baby’ and referred to her as her granddaughter, which was actually the least surprising aspect of it. She was obsessed with animals, especially with rats, and she had quite a few of them at home. One was called ‘Jesus’. She kept the dead ones in the freezer and never bothered with burying them.

He walked down the stairs, the old wood creaking under his weight like always, a nice, homely sound that made him ease up. For the last couple of weeks, there had been a rigid tenseness within him, a tightening of the muscles in his stomach that refused to go away. To keep the worries from overtaking his thoughts, he opted for a nice breakfast, and as he entered the kitchen, a delicious smell lingering in the air, he blinked in surprise at the plate of pancakes on the counter. A handwritten note said, ‘There is fresh coffee in the pot. Take care. Mom.’

The singer frowned.

_The hell was she doing here? It’s the middle of the night. _

He fished out his cellphone, a new BlackBerry. The screen showed 08:12. He frowned and pressed his fingers to his mouth, shocked to find he hadn’t slept all night, not a wink, and it wasn’t entirely Lily White’s fault for meowing incessantly. That night in Hildesheim had become an ugly wound, something that manifested itself in many ways, sleeplessness being one. At night, the ugly wound oozed pus, infected and painful, and try as he might, he couldn’t escape his own skin. Couldn’t stop his mind from racing. 

With a sigh, he opened the fridge and scanned it for whipped cream and syrup. He found the latter and sat down at the table, digging in as though he’d been starving for a week, and once he’d finished the pancakes, he poured himself a cup of coffee and began slurping it up like a thirsty, tired dog, which wasn’t altogether untrue. He was so tired, so fucking tired, he probably wouldn’t function without the caffeine and, in two hours’ time, the bottle of absinthe he’d stashed up in the atelier. Without those sedatives, he’d wind up at the looney bin in no time.

He felt like he was running away from something he couldn’t really outrun. Whatever it was, it was lodged in his brain like a bullet waiting to expand, waiting to explode. 

_I’ll punch your lights out, Depp, _he thought darkly. _Just you wait. You’ve been messing with the wrong guy._

_I’m going to fuck you up good, make you bleed and beg me on your knees to stop._

The thought made him frown deeply. Wasn’t he being just as sadistic as the swine?

“Fuck,” he murmured, rubbing his face with his hands. 

… Did he hate Johnny? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he hated himself for his weaknesses, for his inability to defend himself, and in the end, his femininity. There wasn’t another word for the intrusion – the penetration – and the tears. The depression that had left him so numb and dead. The irony of the situation? He had already done so much dying the last few years; who would have guessed there was something left to kill?

A last white petal, destroyed.

Someone rapped on the window of the balcony. He jumped, startled, and glanced down at his wristwatch. 08:49 a.m. Too early for Hollywood vampires. He grunted and walked into the living room and saw Jeordie’s face squished against the windowpane, his breath fogging up the glass. 

_How the fuck did he get here? _He frowned. The balcony was on the second floor. There wasn’t a ladder.

“Twigs-”

“Allie threw me out,” he said the moment the door was opened. “She threw me out! And burned all my shit – and refused to give me my car keys back.”

“What did you expect?” he asked, wrinkling his forehead. “She’s just another one of your gold-digging bitches.”

The bassist made his way inside, nearly running him over on his way to the bathroom.

“Sorry!” he yelled, sounding desperate. “I really need do take a dump. I’ve been walking around town since 6 a.m. and I’ve had to poop for hours!”

“… I don’t need to know everything, fucking idiot,” the singer said below his breath, rubbing his temples before diving back into to his morning coffee. He sank into his favorite armchair and dropped his head against the wall, feeling drained. If he didn’t get some sleep soon – some proper sleep – he’d get drugs to self-medicate. Even absinthe didn’t always help, even if he drank himself into a stupor, and what was worse, those nights, when he was dead drunk, would end with him crying, shaking and sobbing. And he would paint. Those paintings were ugly and grim, often dystopic and full of self-hatred and guilt. No, drugs would be better, even if he had vowed to stay sober, which he had managed to do for more than a year. His circumstances had, however, changed. He felt like he now had to choose between drugs or death. While drugs left you feeling rather dead, it was probably better than actually _being _dead. 

When Jeordie had finished doing his nasty business in the bathroom, he opened the door and found Brian resting in the black armchair with his eyes closed.

“… Take a photo, will you,” the singer muttered sourly.

“There are enough photos of you in the world as it is, Mazz.”

He opened his eyes. Jeordie immediately felt his heart drop, sending him back to that dressing room in Hildesheim. Whatever had happened to his best friend that day, it hadn’t been something that should have happened to anyone. He could tell by just looking at him. It was his eyes. He had put on so much make-up, too much make-up, but it was still visible. His eyes, red-rimmed and with bags resembling bruises underneath, were haunted and sad, and Jeordie, who had seen it before, knew what it was.

“Have you…” Jeordie trailed off, looking down at his heavy boots. “Um, have you talked to Johnny yet?”

Brian sighed, not wanting to talk about it. “No.”

“Maybe… maybe you should?”

“_He _should,” Brian corrected him. He hadn’t really told the bassist all the details about what had occurred that night, but it had been fairly obvious that something bad had happened. Jeordie was the only one who knew anything at all, and not by his choice, no. He knew because he had heard the entire thing, more or less. That thought filled the singer with shame. No one should have heard. It killed his ego. And what even was a man without an ego?

“Can I stay here?” Jeordie asked, his eyes pleading. “I mean, Allie will come around soon enough, she always does, but I don’t want to stay with anyone else in the meantime. Pogo is my only other option and he’s…” He scrunched up his nose in distaste. “Well, he’s Pogo.”

Brian rolled his eyes. “You practically live in the guest bedroom, Twigs. You needn’t ask.”

The bassist grinned. “We’ll rent a movie-”

“You mean _I’m _driving us to town so _I _can rent a goddamn movie?”

“You know you want to watch a movie, Mazz. A scary one.” 

He snorted. “There aren’t any scary movies. Not nowadays. Guess real life is suddenly scarier than serial killers and rapists, or killer clowns. What do I know?”

“I don’t think-”

Jeordie was cut short by the sound of Brian’s phone ringing. The raven-haired man exhaled sharply, already annoyed with whoever wanted to disturb him. He had been disturbed enough that morning. When he flipped his phone open and saw the caller ID, he paled.

His eyes shot up to meet Jeordie’s curious gaze.

“… It’s him.” 

“Oh.” The bassist grimaced. “I, um… I’ll be in my room.”

_Technically, it’s my room, you bloody leech. _He didn’t voice that thought, he merely gave a dismissive wave of his hand as if to say ‘it isn’t a big deal’, but yeah, after years of the same bullshit, of moving in and out from various girlfriends’ houses, it was a big deal. Didn’t matter that they were friends, he wasn’t running a hotel and preferred to spend his vacation by himself, painting and philosophizing. Meanwhile, his phone continued ringing, again and again, so fucking intrusive.

_I don’t want to fucking deal with this_, he thought, pissed off, and glancing back down at the caller ID, his lips twitched. His nerves were on edge, pinched, and all the feelings he’d buried, or tried to bury anyways, resurfaced. He was suddenly shaking all over. But when he reminded himself of what Johnny had done, of the emasculation, the anxiety quickly transformed into rage, a seething, white-knuckled rage that wanted to spiral out of control.

“Yeah?” he demanded, his chest puffing out, bracing himself. However, the moment he heard Johnny say, “Um, hi,” in a pitifully small voice, he deflated like a balloon, his courage dwindling, dissolving. Whatever hateful words he had thought of saying evaporated before they could reach his lips, tainting the air. 

“… Hello, Johnny.” He aimed for cocksure arrogance and missed, betrayed by the obvious tremor in his voice, something he mentally chided himself for. “What – what do you want?” Right after he had said that, he wanted to punch himself in the face for being such a wuss. He couldn’t even sound intimidating. Wasn’t he – Marilyn fucking Manson – supposed to be a menacing person? He needed to shape up.

“Look, I… last time.” The actor cleared his throat, sounding gruff. “In Germany. Look, I, uh… man, I was so high that day. Met some people at the bar who said they had something to soothe my nerves, something to take the edge off, but no, it didn’t work that way-”

“I don’t want excuses.”

The older man heaved a sigh and said, “I know, Marilyn. I know. But I don’t know what else to say.”

“It isn’t like I can… I can’t forget about it.”

A baby started crying in the background. He smiled sadly. Perfect timing, wasn’t it?

“I’m sorry – she’s soiled herself again.”

“Go take care of it. I don’t care.”

“Marilyn,” the actor said, sounding both pleading and desperate at the same time. “Please, will you meet me for a cup of coffee tomorrow? No alcohol, no pills. I swear.”

“What’s your daughter’s name, Depp?” 

“What?”

“Tell me her name.”

“… It’s Lily-Rose. Why?”

_Lily-Rose. How can her name be Lily-Rose? You’ve got to be kidding me! _Brian felt his heart shriveling up like an old man’s dick. If the universe had ever screamed at him through the use of so-called coincidences, of symbols, it was right then and there, and the message was loud and clear: There was some unfinished business between him and Mr. Depp, business that had to be tended to. And the universe apparently liked to communicate through flowers, through roses and lilies and the flowers of evil, the latter being the bruises that, after two weeks, were faint and yellowish but sore all the same. And for all that he wasn’t religious, he believed in the power of symbolism.

“Swear on her life,” he said, his voice taking on a hard edge. “Swear on Lily-Rose’s life you’ll be completely fucking sober.”

“Um,” Johnny said, almost laughing at the childishness of his demand. “Alright. I swear on my daughter’s life I’ll be ‘completely fucking sober’. I’ll see you at-”

“You’ll see me right here.”

“At your place?”

“Yes, at my fucking place,” he spat. “8 p.m. sharp.”

He hung up on him before he could say another word. He didn’t want excuses, explanations and other tall tales; they wouldn’t change a thing, wouldn’t change the ugliness of the betrayal. If he’d let him speak, he’d say he hadn’t intended to hurt him, almost like he’d stepped on his toes by accident. But forced penetration wasn’t ever an accidental act – it was hatred, lust, sadism, jealousy – and he wouldn’t let him say that he was so fucking sorry, so fucking sad, because who was _he _to feel sad? He had no right to lay claim to his sorrow. No right. 

As he stood there, staring at his reflection in the glass, his eyes glazed over and his lower lip started quivering, making him appear so foolishly young. He forced himself to look away, to swallow his damn sadness, and for a long, long time, he stared out the window and watched the roses that grew like weeds in his garden. They were red – red like blood and sex and hatred. Then he thought about Lily White. She was fresh snow and purity. A white petal. He read into the symbolism of these aspects of his life, though it was ridiculous, and when his eyes flicked up to the doorway, seeing the bassist standing there, his expression that of concern, he asked himself, _how can life be so fucking cruel? _Because time and time again, he’d been humiliated, belittled and wounded. This time by one of his closest friends.

_Trust no one, _he told himself. _No one._

That night, Brian watched Jeordie as he fell asleep on the couch. They had been watching trash TV instead of renting a movie, mainly because Brian had been too drunk to drive. At least he had made some decent paintings. One was a portrait of the bassist – complete with a crooked nose – and another had depicted nothing. It had been red and white and black. Just colors. He supposed that one could interpret it as bruises, as flowers, as love and hate, as whatever one wished. That was the beauty of abstract art, wasn’t it?

He went to bed after feeding Lily some Norwegian salmon – expensive shit that tasted like shit, unless you were a cat. She had climbed into bed with him and had fallen asleep on the pillow next to his head, purring like a fucking vibrator. He had watched her with the goofiest smile on his face. It was love, he told himself, and he felt grateful that his mother had such insight into what really went on in his life, not to mention what he needed. And he’d really needed a cat, a Lily White with the personality of a pixie. After a couple of minutes of staring at her sleeping form, all stress left his body. Heck, even the headache went away, and he quickly dozed off without a single sleeping pill in his system. But no more than a couple of hours later, he jolted awake, feeling as though he had been falling and falling. The moment he hit the ground, his eyes flew open in the dark of his bedroom.

“… Oh God,” he groaned as he pushed himself up on his elbows, taking in the familiar surroundings. Lily White was wide-awake next to him, her face soft and luminous in the moonlight, and her blue eyes, almost ethereal looking, peered up at him, curious about the labored breathing. He knew it had been a bad dream; the adrenaline was still pumping through his veins, but he couldn’t remember what it had been about. When he couldn’t go back to sleep again, he walked up the stairs to the art studio. It was in the ‘tower’, which was quite small but had big windows, which always came in handy when painting.

“Night cap, maybe?” he mumbled to himself and sat down on the floor, reaching for the whiskey bottle he had strategically placed as far away from the many dirty glasses of water and the watercolor palette as possible. He still remembered the time he had reached for the wrong glass.

“… What was I thinking?” he asked himself, looking at the canvas that rested against the wall.

_I’ve never made something like that before_, he thought as he studied the abstract painting – his first abstract painting – and got lost in thought trying to decipher it. After a couple of minutes, he figured that its function was similar to that of a dream. The subconscious mind struggling to find release, latching itself onto the canvas and revealing itself in its most naked, vulnerable state.

_It’s him. It’s about… about what happened that day. _He started chewing on his lower lip, his eyes noticing the milky stains and the red, red blood that had colored the water in the shower. It had hurt for days, a painful reminder of the injustice, the filthy act, and he’d walked like an old man, limping heavily as he moved – something he’d worked hard to hide from his parents. All these elements jumped out at him, glaringly obvious now that he’d dissected it. To everyone else, the painting was just an abstract work of art, a secret only he knew. The harsh black lines were the violence, the trauma, and the bruised colors below were perhaps his trust in others, or rather his distrust in others.

_Why did he do it? _he asked himself, shaking his head at the pitiful painting. Its ugliness was the most outstanding thing about it. But if he looked at it long enough, it was almost as if he saw himself in the aimless brushstrokes. He supposed it was a perfect rendering of his mind, bleeding and oozing pus. The process of painting it had felt like holding a gun, letting the bullets rain. He imagined that was how Klebold and Harris had felt on that fateful day, but in the end, they had gotten more of a revenge, however unnecessary and cruel, than he would ever get from his amateurish artworks.

The painting suddenly felt too real. In its depths, after staring at it for too long, he saw himself, legs wide open and asshole bleeding. 

He shook his head and turned off the lights, but the moon still illuminated room, bathing it in shades of blue. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lighting. Sometimes darkness was more comforting than daylight. What you cannot see cannot scare you, only if you let it.

_He’s coming here. I told him to come here, into my personal space – into my shrine._

It was incomprehensible. A couple of weeks ago, he’d been overjoyed about having him over, charmed by his wittiness and fine features. They had, for quite some time, been joined at the hip, partying hard together, drinking absinthe until they couldn’t talk coherently anymore. And they’d fallen asleep shoulder to shoulder, so close he could feel his breath on his face. There’d been a strong sense of belonging. Johnny’d become a twin soul of sorts – not a soulmate, just like-minded – enjoying Bowie and Morrison and absinthe, and it’d gotten to the point where he just felt so comfortable, he’d let his guard down. Well, he wouldn’t repeat that mistake, the betrayal so deep, so raw, he wouldn’t ever be the same.

Then there was the self-betrayal, the loathsome self-betrayal. _The flesh is sinful above all else_, he lectured himself, thinking about how his body had reacted to his touch. Didn’t matter how violent, how depraved the act had been, his flesh had craved it, begged for it, and what did that make him?

_It made me a willing victim, _he thought, his eyes closed as he remembered what he’d felt like, fingertips grazing his skin, milking him.

_The way he touched me. I wanted him to touch me. _

He had come that night. The orgasm had been blissful. Heavenly, even.

_Had it just been that, lust. Sex. _

But the humiliation? No, he couldn’t like that part. He shouldn’t have liked any part of it, of course, but he had wanted Johnny, hadn’t he? For months, the two of them had entertained one another, often spending the night together while sleeping out on the balcony or in the same bed even, talking about everything and nothing. They had bonded. Never had a day spent in his company been dull – and the laughter had never been forced or feigned. It had been lovely. Johnny had been lovely. Losing all of that, even if it had to be that way, hurt beyond what words could express. He just missed the man. Missed his shy smiles and witty comments. Missed the talks.

… And everything in between.

One of his favorite fantasies had been sucking him off in the shower. The thought still turned him on. What did that even make him? He still wanted to pleasure himself while thinking about that toned chest, those damn cheekbones and chocolate eyes. It made him an idiot, probably.

_Was it just about power? Or did he truly want to fuck me? I’m no looker, I know. Maybe he just wanted to see me weak and scared, but no, Johnny isn’t wicked. Johnny isn’t mean. _And he wanted to believe that. Over the last couple of months, ever since that night at the beach house, the actor had showered him with gifts and kind words and attention. They had spent so much time together, just hanging out like besotted teens, watching movies and listening to music. _I never thought I’d meet someone like that – someone who gets me. But now it’s dead and gone. _He squeezed his eyes shut. _Forever, maybe._

Lily was suddenly next to him, yawning and stretching. Then she meowed.

“You’re a real cutie, aren’t you?” He stroked her under the chin, just the way she liked it.

“Let’s go back to bed, honey. Daddy’s got a long day ahead of him.”

Again, she meowed. He rolled his eyes. She was as vocal as any woman he had ever known. At least it was all love and no hate, as long as he fed her yummy foods.


	8. Pandemonium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, I'm a little bit late :') Also, I really loved writing this chapter.

September 30, 2001

Los Angeles, California

Johnny arrived in his red Chrysler five minutes _early_. That man was always fashionably late and then some. The singer watched him from his bedroom, hiding behind the curtains like the coward he was. He saw him sitting in his car, not moving, and then his phone started vibrating in his pocket. Closing his eyes, he decided to ignore it. Yes, he wanted to talk to Johnny – had to, as a matter of fact, but he wouldn’t give him the reassurance. He wanted him to be on edge. Wasn’t like the fucker deserved any better.

_Oh, are you leaving just because I didn’t answer the goddamn phone, is that it? _he wondered, but no. Johnny climbed out of the car, shut the door slower than one should, failed at shutting the door and then shut it one more time. Brian watched him as he raked his fingers through his long, brown hair and just stood in the driveway, staring at the door, unsure of what to do with himself. When he eventually started walking toward the entrance, Brian descended the stairs. He took his sweet time doing so, hearing the doorbell as it rang again and again. Then it stopped. Brian’s palms started getting clammy.

Johnny stood in the hallway, his gaze fixed on a painting. It was an inexpensive Van Gogh reprint, the one with the sunflowers. He stood sideways to him, his head tilted down and his long, brown hair shielding his face.

Brian, still stood in the stairway, cleared his throat and said, “Johnny”, in a clipped tone. It sure got the actor’s attention. He gave a startled jerk, his hair falling back from his face, and their eyes locked in an intense stare, both suddenly at a loss as to what to say. Brian realized that his heart was pounding and beating so furiously it almost hurt, his body on high alert.

“… Marilyn,” the older man said, his voice strained. Only then did Brian notice that the chiseled face was now haggard and exhausted. His complexion, usually golden with that natural glow, was now pasty and lifeless. The dark rings around his eyes nearly looked like bruises, as though someone had given him two matching black eyes. If Brian were to guess, he would have said that he was also plagued by sleeplessness.

_Serves him right_, he thought. _The fucker. _

“Look, Marilyn, I really need to-”

“Johnny.” The taller man descended the stairs, approaching him slowly. He had decided to look intimidating that day – heavy platform boots but with little make-up – and without the usual color contacts. The suit he was wearing had big shoulder pads that made him appear brawlier. He didn’t look himself.

“Living room, now,” he commanded, voice bleeding with rage. “Are you deaf? Now.” 

The movie star didn’t protest. Brian let him lead the way, but once they reached the hallway, which was quite narrow and also quite claustrophobic, he took a hold of his collar, pulling him backwards. Johnny gave a small sound of disapproval as he was being pushed up against the wall. The larger man pinned his body down with his own, his hands now wrapped around his neck in a way that could only be described as threatening.

“What are you doing?” the actor asked, trying his best to appear unfazed. “Why-”

“I don’t appreciate what you did that night,” he hissed through clenched teeth, though he didn’t tighten his grip around his neck. He merely held him in place, and Johnny was very much aware that he wasn’t going anywhere. The tables had been turned. “And I don’t appreciate the last month of, well,” he laughed angrily, “nothing. Of absolute silence.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to talk-”

“Oh, you didn’t _think _I’d want to talk!” he echoed loudly. Johnny opened his mouth to explain. Before he could make a single sound, the singer silenced him by clasping a hand over his mouth. His eyes widened, clearly surprised – and perhaps a little bit fazed by his show of anger after all.

“What’s that?” he whispered. “You wanted to apologize, is that it? Well, I’ll give you plenty of opportunities to do that. But for now, princess…” He gave an ugly smile. “Well, you and I are gonna play a game of absinthe.”

He let go of the brunet, who in turn nearly lost his balance.

“… A game of absinthe?” he repeated questioningly, following the musician into the dimly lit living room.

“Yes.”

Johnny didn’t ask again. He didn’t need to. On the coffee table stood an untouched bottle of absinthe, the bottle itself shaped like a skull. An armchair had been awkwardly placed on either side of the table, the sofa now stood in the corner, forgotten. Johnny raised a brow at that, feeling confused. His friend had been doing some refurnishing for the occasion, it would seem. 

“And what does that entail?”

“Drinking.” Brian sat down, signaling with his hand for Johnny to do the same. He did.

“Glasses?”

“We’ve already exchanged body fluids,” the singer commented dryly. “Glasses don’t matter.”

Johnny frowned and let out a silent, “Ah.” He looked very uncomfortable and was squirming in his seat, chewing on his lip as his eyes darted back and forth between the door and the absinthe. 

_The fucker can’t even look at me. _Brian squeezed his hands into fists. _What’s he thinking? _

“Look at me, Depp,” he said darkly. “It’s a game of questions You drink; you ask the question. I drink; I ask the question.” He tilted his head to the side, smiling too widely. “Easy, don’t you think?”

“Mm. Very.” He forced himself to maintain eye contact with the singer. “Just one question.”

“What?”

“Who starts?”

Brian smiled. “I’ll start.”

He unscrewed the cork and took a long swig, mostly to soothe his nerves. The brunet watched him intently, wondering where this was going. Alcohol and questions? It already sounded like a train wreck.

“Now, this might be a little blunt,” the singer said, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. “Why did you do it? And please, be brief and concise.”

The brunet felt sharp pangs of guilt, almost as if a bullet that had been lodged inside his heart had suddenly exploded. He broke eye contact, looking down at his hands. Brian followed his gaze and found that his knuckles were scarred and misshapen, as if he’d been fighting brick walls. His voice was slightly detached as he said, “I don’t think I can be brief and concise, Marilyn.” He shook his head. “You’ve got to let me explain-”

“You know what, Johnny?” the singer said, and he was trying too hard to sound harsh. His voice started cracking. “You’ve had your time. Now you don’t have time anymore. Why? Because I say so.”

“Alright,” the actor muttered, running his hand through his greasy hair. “I wasn’t myself. I was possessed by the need to…” He faltered and swallowed thickly, focusing on the air rather than the brown eyes of his friend. Guilt had never been a heavier burden to carry – not that he had ever done anything like that before – and worst of all, he deserved it.

“I… I was possessed by the need to have you,” he whispered. “To take you.”

Brian closed his eyes for a moment, fighting back tears he couldn’t afford to shed. “Your turn,” he said silently. Johnny didn’t hesitate, needing the tranquilizing rush of the alcohol to quiet the storm inside, and he drank greedily from the bottle, not even feeling the burn.

“This thing ain’t gonna last long,” he commented, staring at the half empty bottle.

“I’ve got plenty more of that stuff in the kitchen. Now ask.”

Johnny took a few deep breaths to calm himself. He still avoided Brian’s questioning, apprehensive stare, aware that he couldn’t undo his wrongdoings.

“… Do you…” His eyes shot up from his hands. “Do you hate me?”

“No.”

Brian took the bottle. The green liquid burned his throat like gasoline.

“What do you mean ‘possessed’?”

“I don’t know, I… I was jealous,” the older man whispered, gazing at the floor with glossy eyes. “Seeing Jeordie fondling you up on that stage, well, it was infuriating, you know? I just knew… I knew I had to take you.” He looked as though on the verge of tears, fumbling for word to explain the injustice he had committed that day. The more he thought about it, the less he believed it was possible. What he had done couldn’t be forgiven. He certainly wouldn’t have forgiven himself.

Brian slammed his fist on the table, making the actor jump.

“Tell me,” he demanded. “You’re just avoiding the question.”

Johnny nodded, now trembling with emotion. “I was relatively sober when that happened, alright? And I thought to myself ‘I mustn’t think these thoughts’, and I went to get hammered. But then someone offered me pills – I don’t know what they were – and I accepted. They left me feeling… possessed. There’s no other word for it.” He swallowed thickly, the memories from that night attacking his brain like bombs over Berlin. “I felt that way – possessed – until I… until I came.”

Brian paled. He suddenly regretted the fact that he hadn’t put on more make-up. He should have caked his face with foundation, aware that his skin spoke too loudly on its own. _Fucking nerves. _

“Johnny,” he said quietly. “Drink.”

The actor took another long drink from the bottle, and they lapsed into a thoughtful silence. For a couple of slow seconds, Johnny stared out the window. When he saw that all the rose bushes had been ripped from the earth, their roots sticking up like stiff limbs, he bit his lip. A deep frown furrowed his brows as he openly stared at the singer, his eyes searching his face for an explanation.

“Ask,” he grunted instead of offering one.

The brunet squeezed his eyes shut. “Did I… did I rape you?”

More silence followed. Johnny opened his eyes again, trying to read his mind. The room was dark, but he was still able to make out the younger man’s defeated expression, his eyes emotionless and cold. But still, underneath that cold hardness, something stirred. A wince of pain flashing over his pale features indicated that he was reliving that night, which made Johnny avert his gaze once again, feeling bile rising in his throat, the sour, acidy taste lingering in his mouth like a dead animal.

“… I don’t know,” he said unexpectedly. “Do you think you did?”

“There was blood,” he whispered, nearly choking on his words. “Oh, Marilyn. I’m so so-”

“Don’t say it,” he snarled. “Don’t pity me.”

The actor sighed, feeling more and more desperate. He loved the other man – they had bonded so easily over Jim Morrison and their young years in Florida – and then they had bonded on another level over life. Jamming together, watching old movies together and then the most important thing, which was doing absolutely nothing together in a comfortable silence.

“I don’t pity you, but… I-I… I raped you.”

Johnny’s neck flexed, his eyes wet. 

“No,” the singer eventually said in a strained voice. “I wouldn’t have denied you… wouldn’t have denied you _that_.”

Johnny looked mildly surprised. Then sadness clouded his features.

“I still took it.”

“I came too,” Brian pointed out, sounding as though he was trying to convince himself and not Johnny. He stared blankly ahead for one second, two seconds, licking his lips. “It was rough and violent, but I… I came too. I did – and…” He trailed off, looking vulnerable, young, and the older man had to swallow a sudden lump in his throat; the fact that he was _arguing _that it was somehow okay because he’d orgasmed, well, it was painful to watch.

Brian swigged at the bottle. He didn’t ask any more questions though.

“Marilyn, please,” the actor eventually said, getting up from the armchair. “Can we talk freely? I know you want to be in charge of this, but I need to talk to you.”

The raven-hair man shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He managed to sound indifferent, nonchalant, but his eyes carried this wounded look in them that spoke volumes about his state of mind. However, when Johnny touched his shoulder, feeling the stupid shoulder pad, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t protest. He merely said, “Tell me – get it over with,” and his voice, low and brutal somehow, nearly crumbled as he said ‘over with’, because it’d be the end of them, of this. Never before had Johnny seen him looking so lost, reminding him of the time he’d lost sight of Lily-Rose at the supermarket and she’d started howling, terrified. Alone.

“When I… reached out to you,” Johnny said quietly. “Well, that was when my marriage was beginning to fall apart. I moved back to LA – left the wife and kiddie behind. They stayed in France for a while. Now they’re here in LA. Me and Vanessa wanted to patch things up – the kiddie deserves it, after all. She deserves our effort. But it failed, Marilyn. It failed.”

Brian grunted. “Sorry to hear that,” he said mockingly. “Sorry your perfect life’s falling apart.”

“Well, it hasn’t been good,” the actor admitted, disregarding the sarcasm. “I haven’t been myself. Been drinking a lot. Doing drugs.”

“So I’ve seen.”

“Yes, well, I know. And I can only apologize for what happened. For what I did.”

“What does any of his have to do with your marriage, Depp?”

Johnny let the hand wander, sliding down his arm until he felt the rings on his fingers. His hands were clammy, giving him away, picking apart the tough guy act completely.

“I’ve been fascinated with you for a long time now.”

The singer withdrew his hand, a harsh breath exploding from his mouth. He felt unwell, dizzy and with sweat rushing down his back, gluing his clothes to his back. Being so close to Johnny, feeling his warm skin pressed against his, was wrong, so fucking wrong! Images from that night started flickering through his mind, making him feel naked and scared all over again, and his body reacted as though someone was pointing a gun at his head. His muscles froze, and his mind, his torn, broken mind, was screaming ‘Get the fuck out of here!’, urging him to leave, to escape the hellish things that were about to transpire. History repeats itself, right? And he didn’t want to feel that dehumanizing burn from his rectum ever again, knowing someone had… done _that_, and that he’d allowed it.

… But he couldn’t move. He was a statue, limbs heavy, unmoving. Still, he fixed the actor with a look that could’ve nailed Satan to a wall, and he saw him cower, saw him flinch.

“… You’ve wanted to fuck me for a long time now?” he asked, demanded, his skin tingling unpleasantly.

Johnny didn’t respond, just stared at him, his expression unreadable. 

“Well?”

“No.” 

“That’s what it sounds like. And please, don’t touch me.”

Johnny took a couple of steps backwards. He looked heartbroken.

“Marilyn,” he murmured, shoving locks of hair out of his face. “I… what I meant is that I, well, I’ve wanted there to be an ‘us’ for a long time. I’ve wanted to… to share intimate things with you. Wanted to be close.”

_And so have I_, the singer thought to himself, feeling sad. _But you ruined everything by being a complete dick._

“Believe me, friend, I would’ve made amends if I could.” A shadow passed over his eyes as he said this. “But I don’t think it works that way.”

“No.” Brian looked away. “It doesn’t.”

“… Do you think you can find it in your heart to forgive me?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know, Depp. I don’t know.” 

“Be that as it may, I’ve been thinking about something.”

“What?”

“I…” Johnny fell to his knees before the singer, placing his hands on his knees and staring up at him with an almost pleading look on his face. Then his fingers inched up his thighs, which was inappropriate, very fucking inappropriate given the circumstances. His brown eyes became darker as they peered up at him, soft charcoal, and there was something else in them, something… not good. Something fucked up. Brian sucked in a lungful of air as he realized what it was, submission, and he started to freak out. A thousand ants seemed to crawl over his skin, biting him, nipping at his skin, and he wanted to leave, he really did, but his legs wouldn’t obey him. He was stuck, stuck with Johnny kneeling before him. 

“I’m willing to… let you do what I did to you, Marilyn. You can have me – any way you want – anytime. It’ll…” The brunet lowered his eyes, swallowing thickly. “It’ll make us even…” 

_Even! What are we, ten years old? _Brian wanted to laugh at the bizarre proposal. He didn’t though.

“Like you just said, Depp,” he said in a strangely calm tone of voice, “it doesn’t work like that.”

“Ah, well. It can.”

For a moment, he considered it, considered what he might get out of it.

“Exactly what do you want me to do?”

“What I…” He cleared his throat, his right hand sliding further up his thigh and towards his crotch. “What I did to you.”

The feeling of that hand, though intoxicating, made his throat tighten and his limbs go rigid with some kind of displaced fear. Brian instinctively pushed the smaller man away by the shoulders, causing him to fall backwards and landing on his bum, his expression that of surprise.

“Marilyn-”

“Don’t. Just don’t!”

The singer let out a string of profanities and rose to his feet, desperate to get away. The proximity – the smell of his breath – everything took him back. He swore he could hear the table as it slammed against the wall with every thrust. The little grunts Johnny had emitted. His warm cum trickling down his thigh, and then that look of concern on Jeordie’s face, practically asking him the question Johnny had asked earlier. _Were you raped? _But no, he truly didn’t think he had been. Some invisible chain had kept him from fleeing. He was, after all, a bigger man than Johnny. He could have escaped had he wanted to. Right? 

“I don’t like violence,” he said bitterly. “I don’t want to hurt you for all that I don’t like you right now.”

“… I’ll do anything you want, princess-”

“Don’t you call me ‘princess’ one more time, Depp.”

“Aw, why not, princess? In a mood, are we?”

The singer leaned against the doorway, his eyes narrowing.

_He’s provoking me, _he realized, his heart beating wildly. _He’s manipulating me. For fuck’s sake!_

“Really, Johnny,” he said, letting out a bitter, angry laugh. “You want me to fuck you until you gape and bleed? You want me to make you scream?” His darkened eyes studied him with unwavering attention, his emotions a roaring sea of anger, lust and hatred combined. He felt it in his joints now, the need to touch him, to fuck him. It wasn’t in charge of him though. Yes, he desired him, but no, he didn’t want to leave his mark. Didn’t want there to be any more violence between them. He wasn’t nor would he ever be a rapist, a sadist. Johnny couldn’t take that away from him; he’d already taken so much.

“… You know you want to, princess,” the actor said, a smug smile on his lips. He wasn’t even trying to hide his agenda. Brian could have laughed at that, at how hell-bent Johnny fucking Depp was on getting a dick, his dick, up the ass, but the repeated use of the derogatory term ‘princess’ had him seething with bitterness and rage. That word was like a time machine. Again, he heard the grunts, felt the red-hot poker twisting his insides – and that harrowing look on Jeordie’s face. He’d never forget.

_Don’t let him get to you. It’ll get ugly – even uglier than before. _

Johnny must have seen the skeptical look on his face. He raised one eyebrow, challenging him, and then he said, “Or maybe you’re a bottom, Marilyn?” The actor smiled, starting to take off his belt. Brian felt his heart skipping a beat. “Maybe you’re just a little queen in hiding? We’ll try it again-”

“Depp,” the younger man said threateningly. “I know what you’re up to. You wouldn’t want it to work.”

“… Get down on your knees, _princess_,” the brunet said, now unbuttoning his pants.

Brian’s knuckles were white from clenching his fists too hard. His face flushed with anger, the very same anger that had been begging for release for so long now. _Ok, I don’t have the willpower to deal with this bullshit_, he thought, nearly biting through his cheek as he tried to keep his head from flying off his shoulders. _If he wants this, who the fuck am I to say no? _

“What, do I have to force you again, prin-”

There was a sickening crunching sound, that of bone hitting bone. Before Brian even knew or understood what had happened, Johnny was sprawled out on the Persian rug, his nose bleeding from both nostrils. Was it cracked? He had no idea. Gazing down at his own hand, he saw that blood was slowly seeping from where the skin on his knuckles had been scraped off. The pain wasn’t there. It felt strangely abstract, almost like that painting up in the tower. White. Black. _Red_.

“Is t-that all you’ve got?” Johnny wanted to know, his eyes nearly black. “Is that all you’ve fucking got?”

“I don’t think you want more, Depp,” the singer spat back.

The shorter man stumbled to his feet, taking a hold of the armchair. His head was swimming.

“Come on, Marilyn,” he growled, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. His face was still smeared with red, metallic blood though, making him appear wild and savage. “If you don’t do it, I swear to God above, I’ll fuck you so hard you can’t walk straight for a week!”

“Don’t be an idiot!”

“Come on, princess! I’ll fuck your tight, tight-”

Brian slammed his fist into his face – that beautiful, beautiful face – and couldn’t even feel bad about it. No, he didn’t feel bad at all, he decided. Johnny was, on the other hand, feeling quite bad. He gagged, blood pooling in his mouth, dribbling down his chin, and worst of all, he didn’t fight back. It dawned on him that Johnny was only doing this out of guilt, allowing him to do with his body as he pleased. The abuse would make them even, as he had put it. But they weren’t children; they weren’t vengeful people. This small epiphany put tears in his eyes, making him unclench his fists. In all his years of being an adult, he had never charged at another person the way he had just now. And in spite of all that had happened, he loved Johnny. He _loved _him.

“Bedroom!” he barked, but his expression was completely devoid of anger.

“Make me,” the actor said, spluttering blood. For a man in his position, he looked surprisingly smug.

“Oh, for crying out loud. You’re a little masochist, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Johnny shrugged. “I’m not the one using my fist-”

Brian grabbed a handful of Johnny’s long hair and yanked him off the floor, making him whimper – and shutting him up, which was sorely needed at that point. He dragged him back down the narrow corridor and up the staircase. He wasn’t being very violent – he didn’t want to hurt him – but Johnny wasn’t going to back down anytime soon. Some force was needed. Glancing over his shoulder, he felt his insides clenching painfully at the sight of the bloody mess that was now Johnny’s nose. If he the damage was permanent, the fangirl club would lynch him. That’d be a catastrophe on its own.

Brian’s bedroom was large. The walls were perhaps white, but he had covered the windows with thick black curtains. A red carpet led up to the bed, and there was another red carpet on his side of the bed. He hated it when his bare feet touched the cold floor in the morning.

They were in front of the bed. Brian sighed, wondering how this would turn out. Johnny had some rather awful expectations, but he wasn’t going to care about that. The man had clearly gone mad with guilt and needed some guidance, and forcefully shoving his hard prick into him – and he was quite a bit larger than Depp was – wouldn’t really be helpful. It would lead to more misery, if anything, and Jesus fucking Christ, he certainly didn’t need more misery in his life.

“… Marilyn?”

As he turned around to take a good look at the actor, he flinched at the blood. How he had inflicted these wounds was beyond him. It made him hate himself. Not that he wasn’t already familiar with self-hatred, but this was something else altogether. He felt like his heart was a pin cushion. Maybe he was a sadist, after all? No, no, no, he had to be better than that. Had to.

“… I know you’re the handsomest man in the world, Depp, but to be completely honest, this new look isn’t doing it for me.” The joke lightened the mood a little. Johnny even had the decency to smile, and then he winced. His nose was probably stinging something fierce.

“Wouldn’t have thought the Antichrist was so squeamish about blood.”

“It’s an act, Depp.” He sounded harsher than intended, but only because it reminded him of the argument that had initially led to the very rough sex in that dressing room. The one about the stage naughtiness.

“… Not what your book says. I believe it said something about your ability to feel compassion, empathy – even pity – died.”

“That’s part of the act.” He smiled darkly. “I’m thorough.”

“Ah, well.”

When the older man didn’t add something more to the conversation, Brian let go of his hair. It was clumped together. Some had been glued to his forehead. He hated seeing him this way, his face swollen and covered in blood and bruises, kneeling before him on the floor as though he were his slave. And not in the sexual sense of the word, only the demeaning, dehumanizing sense.

He reached for the baby wipes on his night table – and no, you wouldn’t want to know why he kept them there in the first place. Johnny shot him a funny look, confused and amused.

“Like I said,” the singer murmured, cradling his cheek in his left hand, “this look doesn’t do it for me.”

Johnny melted into the touch. Some noises of discomfort slipped from his lips as the singer cleaned his face, removing the evidence of his heinous acts of violence. Well, the bruises would still testify to the less than delicate treatment, especially in the morning. Perhaps they were already ‘even’. He hoped they were.

“There,” he whispered, brushing some of the greasy, unkempt hair out of his face. “Better.”

“Marilyn,” the older man whispered pleadingly. “I’m yours for the taking. And ripe for the picking.”

Brian looked at him, raising one eyebrow. Then he laughed.

“Shut up,” he said, shaking his head. “Oh, God, how am I supposed to take you seriously?”

Johnny grinned. “Try.”

The singer nodded. If Johnny wanted this – him – he would deliver. With seamless effortlessness he picked the smaller man up from the floor and threw him on the bed. Johnny let out a very girly cry, his eyes wide open as he stared at his friend. Lover? Something along those lines. When had he gotten so strong anyways? Or maybe he had always been strong, he’d just never flexed his muscles, being the reserved man that he was. 

He started undressing the actor, removing the blue, bloody T-shirt he was wearing. There wasn’t the slightest trace of hesitation or discomfort. Johnny lifted his arms over his head, which made it even easier to remove the piece of clothing. His torso was bare, his nipples erect. Brian drank in the sight the way a butterfly drinks nectar from a flower. The beauty of his physique was an inescapable fact, one which instantly filled him with the need to touch and taste. To _feel_. Oh, he wanted to acquaint himself with every inch of his tanned skin, with the small imperfections – scars and moles and freckles – and what was more, he wanted to make him delirious with desire, begging until words became unintelligible shouts, breaths and moans.

“You already know this, but you’re fucking beautiful.”

Johnny shook his head, laughing.

“Nu-uh.”

Brian rolled his eyes and allowed his hand to caress the hard abdomen, the toned chest and the small, brown nipples. Contrary to popular belief, the man was insanely shy. When he whispered, “Yes, you are,” he saw the uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “Don’t doubt yourself. And Jesus fucking Christ Depp, have you taken a good long look at _me_?”

_Here I am, _he thought to himself, his hand still touching the forbidden, _the man dubbed the ugliest man in the world, and I am about to fuck the prettiest man in the world. _This notion made him want to smile, but he found that he couldn’t. How could Johnny find him so ‘fascinating’, as he had said before? Well, alright, he was fascinating in that he was so grotesque, almost like Frankenstein’s monster, but still, how could he be visually pleasing to someone of Depp’s caliber?

“… I have,” the brunet whispered hoarsely, his hand suddenly on Brian’s cheek. The caress was so loving it almost hurt. There was a moment of intense eye contact, but Brian broke it off. It was too much.

“You’re wearing too much clothes,” he complained instead, pulling down the already unbuttoned jeans. Of course he wasn’t wearing any underwear, the sly bastard. Brian couldn’t help but to smile at that, and his smile grew even bigger at the sight of his arousal. It could only be described as intoxicating.

But the moment he felt his own member stiffening, begging for attention, he pulled back, feeling awkward.

“… What?” Johnny asked, voice small.

“I…” The singer let out a deep sigh. He loved this man. He wanted this to be right – to feel right – and to not be a waste of their time. Another setback would destroy their relationship. He couldn’t afford to lose it. “I don’t want to hurt you, Depp. It might make me a coward, but fuck…”

“Oh, shush it,” Johnny whispered, snaking a hand around his wrist. “Come here.”

They suddenly weren’t playing the ‘even game’ anymore. Johnny sat up on his knees and started undressing the singer, the jacket with the mean shoulder pads falling down on the floor first. He quickly reached up to his collar and started unbuttoning his shirt, his fingers trembling, causing him to mutter, “fucking-stupid-piece-of,” delivered as one word. Brian let out a soft laugh, his hand reaching out for Johnny’s face again – his fingers tracing the jawline and cheekbones. He saw how the long-lashed brown eyes glinted with concentration as he struggled with the last button, his face hardening. When he had been stripped down to just his boxers, his bulge visible, the actor smiled, probably pleased with himself.

“… You don’t look half bad, Marilyn,” he said, a flattering shade of pink tinting his cheeks.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

The actor smiled, embarrassed. “I think you’re handsome.”

Brian growled. He didn’t want to be flattered like some silly girl, didn’t need any talking into. He didn’t even roll his eyes, he just charged at him, pushing him down into the mattress, gaining dominance. Of course, Johnny wasn’t putting up a fight. It almost frustrated him, but more than anything else, it delighted him. Not that he wanted a pliant lover who didn’t voice his own wishes, but then again, this was still about payback on some level.

_At least he doesn’t want me to be that rough anymore, _he thought to himself, glad of it.

Brian kissed his neck, finding that he didn’t wear any perfume. The smell of his skin – sweat and the faintest trace of soap and cigarettes – made him heady. It wasn’t the nicest smell in the world, but it was real. Johnny wasn’t some plastic person who took pills to make his shit smell like flowers, no, he was just a man like any other. He did have the face of Adonis, sure, but that wasn’t what made him beautiful. Not anymore.

The actor let out a strangled moan, breaking his chain of thought.

“… My, my,” the raven-haired man whispered against his skin, moving up to his jaw.

“I meant it,” Johnny whispered back, his voice shaky. “You’re… you’re perfect. Handsome.”

“Don’t.”

Johnny was about to say something, his lips slightly parted, and Brian, who was a total opportunist, saw his chance at both silencing him and tasting him. He closed the space between them, his plump lips brushing against his, and for the slowest, speediest moment of his entire life, he felt his heart nearly imploding in his chest. The kiss made the world disappear, and suddenly his existence revolved around this man, this insane man who was also insanely beautiful, inside out. The warmth of his body, of his mouth, was reassuring in a way he hadn’t experienced before, almost like an anchor. It was a sloppy kiss – awkward in all the right ways – and the taste of absinthe and cigarettes was being exchanged, both of them feeling the burn of the alcohol. When his hand wandered quite lazily down to his hard dick, his hand ghosting over it, Johnny arched up into the broad chest, his fingers digging into his back.

“… Fuck,” the actor whispered, heaving for air.

“We’re not done just yet, are we?” Brian teased, suppressing a laugh.

“Hope not.”

The singer smiled, his hand reaching between his legs again. Johnny looked into his eyes, the familiar brown eyes that held so many secrets in them. And he thought it sad that he’d never know his own outward beauty. When he smiled the kind of smile that showed all his teeth and made his eyes shine with warmth, Johnny couldn’t stop staring, admiring him. Or when he put on make-up and transformed into his alter ego. Yes, Johnny had noticed how he went from shy to confident just by applying some stupid foundation, color contacts – and the red or black lipstick. Couldn’t leave the house without that darn lipstick. The thought made him smile like the idiot he probably was.

“Kiss me?”

Brian rolled his eyes, his cheeks reddening.

“You’re such a girl.”

“I’m not the one blush– hey, hey, hey! Biting isn’t cool!”

The singer grinned from where he was rolling a small, erect nipple between his teeth. Johnny looked terrified, clearly more than a little sensitive there, but he didn’t push him away. And when he placed a trail of kisses down his abdomen and toward you-know-where, he drew in a sharp breath, not at all complaining about the treatment.

_Oh, hello_, he thought when he was greeted by the hot swollen flesh that seemed to reach out for him, smaller than his own but not by much. He wasn’t a stranger to the realm of gay sex, even if he usually found himself at the receiving end of such ungodly activities, and more often than not, Jeordie was at the other end. When they weren’t onstage, his blowjobs weren’t half bad. And despite hating to admit it, sex without love wasn’t really ever that good, almost like driving a fancy car that didn’t actually belong to you.

His mouth was on the inside of Johnny’s thigh, kissing his way toward the final destination. Johnny was already letting out little gasps, gasps that sent jolts of pleasure through his body, wanting nothing more than blissful release for himself. But he was enjoying this too. Seeing Johnny like this was enchanting, writhing and trembling like a leaf in the wind under his touch. When his lips reached his balls, the actor buried his fist in his black hair and guided him toward his dick, impatient. If it hadn’t been for the mouthful of dick blocking his words, he would have had something to say about it. Instead, he swirled his tongue around the velvet tip, making him arch into him, pressing into the sweetness of his mouth.

“… Oh, Marilyn – oh!” the actor moaned, his eyes glued to the lovely sight between his legs. It wouldn’t take him long to reach his climax, not when everything when so wonderful and drugging and _right_. Yes, it felt right, he told himself. More right than with Vanessa. More right than with anyone else he’d been with, actually.

The younger man swirled his tongue around his dickhead again, tasting the salty precum. It earned him another appreciative moan, the actor’s hips thrusting involuntarily into his mouth. For a second there, he had the decency to look apologetic, but Brian drew him in as far as he could, enjoying the sounds he made as he buried himself completely in his mouth. It triggered his gag reflex though, and seeing as he was unaccustomed to that particular sensation, he drew back a little and closed his lips over the head of his dick, sucking hard and rolling his tongue around him.

Johnny came sucking in lungfuls of air, spilling himself into the singer’s mouth while muttering incoherently, his body shuddering uncontrollably. Brian had no qualms about swallowing, the taste familiar enough, though he could tell he was a smoker. Cigarettes left a certain aftertaste. 

“Oh, my…” the brunet breathed, his eyes closed.

The singer had a somewhat self-satisfied look on his face as he said, “Glad you liked it.”

Then something unexpected happened. Johnny, now completely spent, back pressed down against the mattress, murmured, “I really do adore you, Brian Warner.” It was the first time he had said his birth name, and for one reason or the other, it knocked the air from his lungs. What the fuck did one say in these situations? He didn’t know. He wasn’t familiar with all that lovey-dovey stuff, having left it behind after Michele had broken his heart. But looking at Johnny, nearly asleep and with no ulterior motives, being more successful and earning more money than he could dream of, he felt something stirring inside that charred, blackened heart of his.

_I’m going insane – am I? Fucking hell. Fucking shit. What do I say? _

“… Are you going to fuck me?”

“I – what?”

“I said,” Johnny whispered hoarsely, eyes blinking open, “are you going to fuck me?”

The singer smiled at him, amused. “No. You’d fall asleep on me.”

“Oh,” the actor murmured back, yawning. “Cuddle?”

_Jesus. Cuddle? What is this, high school? _The cynical, bitter part of him wanted to push him out of bed and chase him outside, and maybe throw a shoe at him, but why? Why was this so scary and weird? He supposed his other girlfriends had always kept him at arm’s length, and he them, for the matter. Ever since that bitch Michele, he had been scared of people betraying him or leaving him. But if he didn’t love them, it wouldn’t really hurt. That had been his philosophy in love and in life, and it was pretty fucking sad. Maybe he needed to love someone again.

He shifted to a position where he was facing Johnny, his head resting on one of the big, fluffy pillows by the headboard. The brunet smiled weakly, at the brink of sleep, and spent his last energy on snuggling into his warm embrace. Brian swallowed thickly, wrapping his free arm around the smaller man’s waist, suddenly feeling very protective of him. That could only mean one thing. And the fact that his heart was beating so fast he could hear it in his ears led him to the same conclusion. He was in love.

Johnny started snoring. Brian sighed, thinking about how the day had turned out. It suddenly annoyed him that he hadn’t gotten to fuck him – hadn’t even received an itsy-bitsy hand job – and hadn’t that been the point of Johnny’s lame proposal to begin with? Not that it mattered. Thoughts of love had made him about as soft as a jelly fish in more ways than one. He hated it almost as much as he liked it.

And Johnny? The love had crept up on him while he hadn’t been paying attention. Johnny had been attentive, friendly and an absolute gentleman to him, and his intentions had gone right over his head, just because it seemed really unlikely that Johnny fucking Depp would be into Marilyn Manson. It was funny, actually. He pressed a kiss to his temple, thinking about the shitty last month of not talking to one another. Not so funny, but they’d gotten their priorities straight.

_Weren’t you just crying your heart out because he was a little bit rough? _he asked himself, frowning. Then he remembered his raw, aching knuckles. He had hit him in the face. That wasn’t his proudest moment, but who knows, maybe Johnny had been right. He wasn’t angry with him anymore, after all. Guilt could outmeasure guilt, apparently. 

_Don’t overthink everything, you damn idiot. Besides, I can live with this_. He smiled at the sight and feel of their bodies pressed together. What a vision. And when Johnny shifted in his sleep, snuggling closer, his heart fluttered in his chest. _Hell, _he thought, feeling warm and fuzzy inside. _I can be happy like this. _And when Lily White jumped onto the bed and curled up next to his head, purring into his ear, he knew his heart had just completely melted into a puddle of sugary, pink goo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think this whole reconciliation came a little bit too soon, you're not alone in thinking so... Manson is lonely, and loneliness sometimes enables self-destructive behavior. You'll see what I mean soon enough. Also, I'm a mean bitch when it comes to these two boys, so don't expect too much happiness. Haha, I actually keep telling my bf I have a small sadist living inside of me, and he says, "We have to keep her entertained as well," aaaand that's basically what I'm doing here... 
> 
> Comments are appreciated <3


	9. Baths and Baby Wipes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late again x) Hope you like it.

September 31, 2001

Los Angeles, California

Brian opened his eyes, blinking tiredly up at the white ceiling of his bedroom. He felt warm and comfortable under the thin duvet, and Lily White was nestled against his neck, her white fur tickling him. She was sound asleep, now accustomed to this strange house and its strange owner. As he glanced over at the night table and saw the pack of baby wipes, memories from the previous night suddenly flooded back into his mind, and he groaned, wondering if the whole thing had been a mistake. And of course, Johnny wasn’t in the bed. Wasn’t in the room. Wasn’t in the bathroom. Wasn’t there.

_Fuck. _He drew his lower lip between his teeth, his heart thudding painfully. _Did he leave me again? _

“No-no-no,” he whispered to himself. “Don’t be a girl about it. Don’t…”

_Don’t fucking cry! Jesus, Brian, get a grip. _

Instead of hugging the pillow that smelled like the actor, he climbed out of bed – careful not to rouse Lily White from her sleep – and stepped inside the large walk-in closet. When he met his own dark eyes in the mirror that covered one of the walls, he nearly jumped out of his skin. In his eyes, he saw the hurt. It didn’t matter that he had tried suppressing it for years and years, it was all bottled up inside him, gnawing at his brain. Yeah, that stuff was probably doing something nasty to his character. Did it make him brisk and prone to fits of anger? Well, he always had been one hell of an angry guy, but the hurt didn’t help. It had started with Michele. Now it was Johnny.

_First he fucked me in the ass, and now he’s walked out on me. Great, just fucking great._

He felt the sting of tears and blinked them back, deciding to push it all to the back of his mind. Or maybe just burying it in an unmarked grave somewhere. Whatever made him forget the hurt. While thinking long and hard about not thinking about Johnny, he put on those same old sweatpants and an old band T-shirt that had been washed so many times the logo was just a blurry mess. It had been a The Cramps T-shirt back in the day, depicting the delicious Poison Ivy, now missing half her face. In addition to this, he pulled on some purple socks. If all else had to be black, at least his feet could be colorful. Standing before the mirror again, he picked up a brush and brushed his hair until all the tangles had come out, all the while avoiding his own wounded stare in the mirror.

The loud clang of metal against the tiled kitchen floor echoed throughout the house, startling the singer. Johnny hadn’t left? He frowned, making his way down the stairs.

“… and that’s why I prefer to use olive oil or butter,” he heard Johnny say in that paternal tone of voice he sometimes used when he wanted to get his point across. “It’s also much healthier.” 

“I don’t know, man. I just deep-fry everything.” Jeordie. Of course.

“You’ll get cancer.”

“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Depp. I’ll got something else long, long before that happens. Good thing HIV can’t kill you anymore, eh?”

_Mr. Depp? _The singer rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen. When two pairs of eyes were glued to his sleepy form, he rolled his eyes and said, “What, I’m such a sight to behold that you’ve both lost your ability to speak?”

Johnny blushed a little. His face was red and swollen, and of course, he looked like someone had beaten the crap out of him. His nose reminded him of an overripe strawberry, and his right eye was black. He was frying eggs and bacon with that fancy frying pan Brian had bought and never used. The room smelled like freshly made coffee, and the table had been set. Three plates, all adorned with a napkin folded into a bird. Show-off. _And _he was wearing the stupid apron that said ‘Best Chef in Hell’ and depicted Satan in the midst of barbecuing Jesus, which had been a gift from his mother. Not that he had used it much. No, he had to side with Jeordie where food was concerned. Deep-fried and with as few vegetables as possible. Meat on top of meat. Delicious hamburgers with melted cheese. His stomach growled, earning him a sweet smile from his friend. Lover? Something. 

“I see you’re hungry, darling,” Johnny said, his eyes gleaming.

“Um.” Brian scratched the back of his neck, feeling the heat rising in his face. “Sure.”

“Oh my God,” Jeordie said, grinning widely from where he was stood by the table. “You two are banging? Oh, oh, oh, you are! You totally are.” He was nearly jumping up and down with excitement. “How brilliant!”

Brian groaned. “Shut up, Twigs. I’ll throw you out if you don’t.”

“Aw, you wouldn’t do that,” Jeordie said, walking over to him with open arms. “I know you love me.” Then he hugged him. Brian almost died when he saw how Johnny was smiling, clearly not used to grown children like Jeordie – or the strangely physical affection between them. The bassist was normally capable of reading him quite well. Maybe he just didn’t care to adjust himself accordingly this time. No, he had clearly set his mind on embarrassing Brian, because hey, what’s more fun than making the Antichrist blush?

“Alright. Enough.”

“I think breakfast will be good,” the bassist said as he let go of the older man. “Johnny here knows a thing or two about his butters and oils.”

Brian suppressed a scowl and muttered, “Yeah,” under his breath. His face was a bright red color.

“Aw, did you get a severe sunburn or something?” Jeordie asked, feigning concern. “Ma-an, it’s hot in LA these days…”

_What the hell is wrong with you, Twigs? _he shouted inside his head, though he plastered on a twitchy smile and said, “It can get a hell a lot warmer in LA.” _And especially if you don’t watch it, fucktard. _

Jeordie just giggled at the threat. “If it gets any warmer, your head is gonna explode, Mazz. You better ask Johnny to” – he raised his voice notably, sending the actor a long look – “smear some sunscreen on those pale limbs.”

Johnny gave an amused chuckle, unfazed. “Ah, I’d absolutely love to do that.”

The bassist giggled again and whispered, “Butter you up good,” into his ear. Then, once Brian’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, he laughed so much he doubled over, nearly gasping for air.

Brian groaned inwardly. He hadn’t felt more like a teenager since some time before he had actually entered his teens. Back then, when he had fallen in love for the first time, simply holding hands had made his dick hard and his brain shut down, turning him into a blabbering, sweaty mess of hormones and pimples. Now he was just blushing, wishing he had put on some make-up. Oh well. At least he wasn’t sporting an awkward boner. 

“Alright, lovelies. Breakfast is ready.”

Johnny pulled out Brian’s chair for him, making him blush another shade darker. He shot a nervous glance in Jeordie’s direction, but the bassist was too preoccupied stuffing his face with bacon and eggs to pay attention to the lovebirds. This made him feel less tense, almost as if the current scenario was completely normal. He wasn’t accustomed to things being so laidback. With Rose, Jeordie had always distanced himself, mainly because the bitch couldn’t stand him and his childish and sometimes reckless attitude. Things were different now. Where Rose had been obnoxious and small-minded, Johnny was charismatic and likable. Brian wasn’t sure where he himself fit in, being both brusque and bad-tempered, but he found himself enjoying it nonetheless.

“Thanks for the breakfast,” Jeordie said and stood up from the table, the legs of the chair screeching against the tiles. He had grease dripping from his chin and fingers and was beaming with childlike glee.

“You better wash those hands before you touch anything,” Brian commented, not wanting yellow fingerprints all over his expensive furniture – and not to mention the antiquities that littered the place. Then he would actually consider kicking him to the curb.

Jeordie started licking his fingers, still beaming. “No problem, Mazz.”

“That doesn’t count!” the singer yelled. Jeordie could only chuckle, clearly having annoyed him on purpose.

“I’ll go take a shower!” he yelled back, disappearing down the hallway.

“Good!”

He shook his head and resumed to his meal. How Jeordie could have finished in less than five minutes was beyond him. He’d barely taken a bite out of his first egg, for crying out loud. When he eventually glanced up from his plate, he saw that Johnny was watching him. He was smiling, suppressing a laugh.

“… You know,” he began to say, wiping the corners of his mouth with the now ruffled napkin. “He’s doing it on purpose. Winding you up, I mean.”

“I know,” Brian grumbled. “Still gets to me. Doesn’t take a whole lot to get on my nerves, especially when your name is Jeordie White and you know exactly what buttons to press.”

Johnny frowned at the choice of words, his expression turning grim.

“He knows what buttons to press alright,” he muttered under his breath, which was enough to make Brian put his knife and fork down, startled. He could practically see the green-eyed monster in those words, reminding him of the Johnny he had met backstage that night. But at the same time, he saw something else. Johnny Depp wasn’t really Johnny Depp at all. Yes, he had charms and humor, but he was also vulnerable. He certainly was confident as an actor, but as a man? The sexual, albeit unromantic relationship he shared with Jeordie was a threat. It triggered the green-eyed monster, and Brian could relate. Had it been the other way around, he wouldn’t have been happy, but why was that?

_He’s mine. _He drank some coffee, stalling for time. _And I’m his? _

“… I’ve got to admit,” Johnny began to say, his eyes dark but with a glimmer of uncertainty. “I still don’t understand the sexual-”

“I won’t do those things onstage anymore,” Brian blurted out. “Not when we’re, uh, you know,” he said, surprising both himself and the actor. His face was burning with embarrassment, his skin redder than red. Why was it so hard to voice these things? They were adults – more than adults – and it should’ve been easy enough to name it. Label it. But what? What was appropriate? With a girl, he could’ve been all cute and it would have worked. But with a man?

_Not when we’re together, _he thought to himself, trying it out. _Not when we’re an item. Not when we’re in a relationship. Not when we’re fucking. Fuck, no. Not when we’re… in love? _

“… Thank you. And, well, I’m terribly sorry,” Johnny said, huffing. “I’m… I’m a jealous guy. I can be.”

“You don’t say.”

The brunet bit his lip in a thoughtful manner. He hadn’t gotten over what had happened in that dressing room.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “That night… I wasn’t just jealous… I was…”

_Possessed. You were possessed. _

Brian swallowed hard, recalling images from the night. There had been something animalistic lurking in the depths of his eyes that night, something raw that probably existed within all humans. The need to possess. And he hadn’t hated it, at least he hadn’t hated all of it. He was, however, very certain that their sex life could only improve, and without the need to hurt or brand. He wouldn’t hit him again, and he wouldn’t stick his dry dick up his ass without any lube. That was just madness. No, scratch that. It was plain stupidity and nothing more. Being seated on an airplane for hours the following morning had been another kind of hell altogether.

“You were friendly enough with Jeordie just now,” the singer pointed out, choosing to let it go.

“Ah, yes, well…” Johnny drank some coffee, his eyes darting from the table to the wall to Brian. “I don’t have an issue with him. It was… well, the act.” He cleared his throat. “The sexual act.”

“I would’ve been jealous too,” Brian admitted.

Johnny nodded. “But you wouldn’t have… you know.”

“No,” he agreed. When he again looked into those impossibly deep eyes, he let out a sigh and said, “Listen to me, Depp, and listen good. I’m not gonna say this or address this ever again. You didn’t rape me. Do you understand?” He paused, staring at Johnny with determination written all over his face. There was no room for misinterpretation. “You. Didn’t. Rape. Me.”

“I… didn’t rape you.”

“No, you didn’t.” He picked up his knife and fork again. “Now, let’s move on from this. I’m sick of it.”

“If you say so, Marilyn.”

_Are we back to Marilyn again? Sigh. _

His phone beeped. He fished it out and read the text message from Jeordie. It said, ‘Johnny’s face tells me you’re okay.’ He wrote a simple ‘yes’ in return, shuddering at the thought of how Jeordie had walked in on him with semen running down his leg, his junk hanging out. He’d never be able to forget.

“You still haven’t fucked me,” Johnny said in a lighter tone of voice.

“And I still haven’t eaten my breakfast, Depp,” he said sourly, stabbing a piece of bacon with his fork.

The actor laughed. “You’re a feisty little thing, aren’t you?”

“First of all,” Brian said, now chewing on the piece of bacon. “My thing isn’t little; it’s huge. Second… you’re smaller than me in more ways than one. Most ways, actually. But you knew that already.” 

“Kitty’s got claws.”

“You bet.” He drank some coffee. “Also, your hair is greasy. Looks like someone used it to mop the dirty ass basement floor. I don’t want to think about the last time you had a shower.” He smiled wryly at his own comment, watching Johnny’s eyes as they widened. “No wonder Vanessa walked out and left me to pick up the pieces.”

“Hey,” Johnny said, voice strained. “You don’t need to be dick about it.”

Brian shrugged. “You wouldn’t have come for me unless she left you.”

“I left her, _Brian_.”

_Oh, are we using my birth name only when we’re fucking and when we’re angry? I don’t like that._

“Let me get this straight,” Brian said, looking glum. “You left Vanessa Paradis for me, Marilyn Manson?”

Johnny suddenly rose from the table and strode towards the singer with a thunderous expression, suggesting that it had been the wrong thing to say. He had apparently tried his patience, pushing him a bit further than he should have.

“I did, yeah,” he grumbled, putting his hand on Brian’s shoulder. “Kept thinking how wrong it was that she isn’t you,” he said, the last part of the sentence turning into a whisper. “A pretty face is just that, and it can only get you so far. Vanessa has a great personality too, but… when I fell for you, I didn’t fall just a teeny-weeny, itsy-bitsy tiny bit, no, I fell hard. I’m not in love with her.”

Brian just shook his head. He didn’t like flattery. Didn’t need it.

“When can I finish my damn breakfast?”

Johnny took a hold of his fork and fed him some bacon. The younger man rolled his eyes, but he accepted, chewing the bacon. After that, Johnny brought a glass of orange juice to his lips and said, “There. Your plate and glass are both empty. You’ve finished your damn breakfast.”

The tan, calloused hand was heavy on his shoulder. He stared down at him and leered, his eyes filled with the dangerous emotions of anger and lust. Brian wasn’t backing down either. They both seemed determined to match the other in a staring contest. When the hand moved from his shoulder, sliding from his neck to his cheek in a loving caress, he closed his eyes and said, “I find all of this very hard to believe.” Blinking his eyes open again, he saw that Johnny’s anger had deflated.

“I wish I hadn’t done what I did-”

“No-no-no,” Brian groaned. “I told you before, you didn’t fucking rape me! I don’t want to talk about that shit anymore. No, that isn’t it.” He closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath. “I just don’t … I don’t get why you’re here with me. I’m just… I’m me.”

“You are.” Johnny nodded his head solemnly, though a slight smile tugged at his lips. “And I’m very fond of you, darling. All of you. You’re tall and strong, intelligent and witty, and you have the most beautiful brown eyes. When you smile, I sometimes feel like the rest of the world simply disappears. And you’re talented in so many ways. You’re _passionate _about stuff. Painting. Writing. Singing.” He raised an eyebrow in a suggestive manner and added, “Performing,” to the list, which made both of them blush.

“… Alright,” Brian muttered, averting his eyes. How he hated flattery.

The actor put a hand on his cheek again, forcing him to look him in the eye. “I actually do find you very attractive, Brian Warner,” he said quietly. “I do. And I’m not particularly prone to lying, mainly because I’m no good at it.”

The singer shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Alright,” he whispered again, unable to return the compliments. If he were to be honest, he would have to admit that the compliments made him feel uneasy. But he had to try to accept them. He couldn’t be so damn guarded if he were to be in a relationship with the actor. Johnny was a hopeless romantic and liked to voice his thoughts and feelings, and Brian had to put some faith in him. Had to believe him.

… And had he really left her for him? That was really fucking hard to believe.

He believed him nonetheless.

_Well, that’s something. _He swallowed nervously, patting his mouth with his napkin. _Me over Vanessa Paradis._

“… So,” Johnny said, smiling.

“So, let’s get you into the shower, Mr. Depp. That hair needs washing.”

In that exact moment, he could hear Jeordie giggling from the hallway. He’d been eavesdropping like the child he was, but for once, he didn’t roll his eyes at him, nor did he yell. Perhaps he’d been listening out of concern? He felt a tug at his heartstrings, and feeling Johnny’s hand on top of his, he felt it again.

* * *

The master bathroom had a timeless appeal with its tiny black marble tiles and a claw-foot tub that reminded Johnny of the Victorian era. There was also a separate shower, a modern one with a thousand different settings, but Brian walked over to the tub, filling it with warm water. Johnny spent a moment studying his own reflection in the large, round silver mirror on the wall above the sink. Beaten and bruised. That wasn’t what surprised him though. It struck him that the singer was a bit of a neat freak in comparison to himself, seeing as there was no toothpaste splattered on the mirror, no hairs in the sink and no make-up on the counter.

“You’re… cleanly.”

Brian, though Johnny couldn’t see his face, smiled at the comment.

“You’re not,” he said jokingly.

“No,” the actor agreed, touching his nose and flinching. “No, I’m not.”

Brian turned around and saw that Johnny stood before the mirror with his hand on his nose. The guilt was like ice in his guts, but before he could say anything, apologizing or asking for forgiveness, Johnny looked over his shoulder and noticed that he was being watched. In spite of the injuries – in spite of knowing who had put them there – he smiled. It wasn’t that shy smile either, no, it was that goofy, happy smile. He only ever smiled that particular way when he was over the moon about something, and Brian felt strange knowing what he was over the moon about this time.

“… Get undressed,” Brian commanded without sounding harsh, his eyes firmly fixed on the older man’s face. “While the water’s still warm.”

Johnny stepped away from the mirror, his eyes hungry and curious as they regarded the still blushing creature before him. He knew he wasn’t as innocent or prudent as his blushes seemed to suggest, no, far from it, but it was still endearing. Marilyn – his Marilyn – was beautiful, strange and mesmerizing. The fact that he didn’t seem to understand his own sex appeal made him all the more attractive, not that he would have understood that either.

“Will you be joining me, Marilyn?”

Brian gave an abrupt, unamused laugh and said, “Are we back to Marilyn again?”

“Alright,” Johnny murmured, now only inches away. “Brian.”

“… And no… I’ll help you out though.”

The younger man hesitantly started unbuttoning the first button on his shirt, then the second button, his hands trembling a little, though he couldn’t quite say why. He wasn’t nervous, not really, but having Johnny so close was enough to send shivers down his spine and make him break out in gooseflesh. When the brunet clasped his hand around his, bringing it to his face and kissing it, he felt his knees turning into jello. Fuck. How could he be such a girl about it? He pulled away, alarmed at the way things were progressing. His heart was going berserk inside his chest, beating as though it wanted to leap out of his chest.

“… You know when I kissed you that night at the beach house?”

Brian drew in a sharp breath, the question having caught him off guard.

“Yeah?” he said, his voice nearly gone.

“I really wanted to seduce you that night, Brian,” he confessed, his eyes gleaming with mirth, and Brian could have sworn that he saw a flash of mischief in those brown orbs. “But you weren’t who I thought you were. Not at all. And I found that I liked the man you turned out to be better than the illusion I had crafted in my head. You simply…” He kissed the hand again, letting his lips rest against the base of his thumb for a couple of seconds, his warm breath tickling him. “You simply took my breath away.”

“You were just drunk, Johnny,” the raven-haired man said teasingly. “On whiskey. And Jim Morrison.”

“No.” Johnny wrinkled his forehead. “On you, baby doll.”

The singer groaned. “It’s Brian.”

Johnny let go of his hand and quickly slipped out of the gray shirt. It, together with his jeans and socks, ended up in a heap on the tiled floor. When he stood there, clad only in his white underpants and with that characteristic shy smile on his lips, Brian pulled off his T-shirt and sweatpants. He was still feeling a tad self-conscious about being naked around Johnny, aware that he couldn’t possibly measure up to his perfect physique, and because life is such a merciful angel, his burning cheeks made him easier to read than a picture book. He hadn’t really ever felt as naked before. 

“Alright, beautiful,” the actor murmured.

He almost flinched. “Don’t,” he said warningly, slightly annoyed. 

Johnny ignored his discomfort, his eyes hungry as they took in the sight of him, all thin and pale and long-limbed. To him, everything about the singer was just as it ought to be. The hairless chest with the small, pink nipples; the brown eyes framed by long lashes that brushed his impossibly high cheekbones; the curvy, voluptuous lips that were rather feminine. He had that androgynous look, and yeah, alright, he wasn’t a conventionally handsome man, not by any means, but then again, he was Marilyn Manson. One of a kind. An alien stranded on planet earth, misunderstood by most and either worshipped as a God or feared as the devil. Very lovable, all in all.

“That’s enough chit-chat – the water’s getting cold,” the singer complained, roughly pulling down the white underpants and all but pushing Johnny into the tub. The actor let out a surprised little yelp as the water splashed outside the tub, soaking the bath mat completely. Brian didn’t seem to mind the mess they were making. He was actually giggling, enjoying himself. And with a naked Johnny Depp sitting in your bathtub, what was there not to be happy about?

He reached for a purple bottle on one of the shelves and squirted some of its contents onto his palm and started rubbing his hands together. Gently, he ran his hands through the unruly mop of hair and massaged his scalp with his fingertips. As he carried out this task, a look of intense concentration knitted his brow. He wondered when the actor had last run a comb through his hair and regretted not having brushed it before getting it wet. Oh well, there wasn’t much he could do about that now.

“… Haven’t you heard about a little something called personal hygiene, Mr. Depp?” he asked, licking his lips.

“I’m no good at being single,” he said, voice small. “Can’t get nothing done. Besides, I’ve been feeling rather…” He swallowed thickly, searching for the right word. “…blue.”

“Well, you’ve shaved.”

He smiled at the comment. “Had to.”

“Why’s that?”

“Ah. Couldn’t show up here looking like an ape, could I now?”

Brian didn’t respond. Instead, he reached up to turn on the water. Before Johnny could add another word to the conversation, water shot out of the shower head. The younger man started rinsing out the shampoo, carefully threading his hand through his hair. Once done, he put conditioner in his hair. It had a spicy, citrusy smell that reminded Johnny of trips abroad, to Asia and Europe.

“That smells lovely,” he murmured, closing his eyes. The feel of his hands was the most soothing thing ever.

“… Hey,” Brian barked. “No sleeping.”

He cracked one eye open. “Mm, no. But your fingers feel so good.”

Brian blushed again, color rushing to his cheeks.

“Shut up, Depp,” he muttered sourly, his hands still buried in his hair. 

“Mm.”

The older man could suddenly recall with clarity what that smell had reminded him of. For a moment, he let himself get lost in a wave of nostalgia. He remembered the first time he had gone on holiday with Vanessa, both head over heels in love. They had danced together under the stars – no music save the sound of their laughter. Vanessa had been dazzling, her face unmarred by the sands of time, and their coupling had been passionate. It felt unreal looking back, almost like seeing the life of a stranger being played out on a movie screen. The only memory that felt unmistakably real was the birth of his child. That would forever be the most sobering experience of his life, not to mention the most humbling. She had been his number one priority ever since, no doubt about it, and the thought of Vanessa getting full custody had nearly unhinged him. If anything, he’d been feeling like the mad hatter himself, walking around in a confused daze. The hours he’d gotten alone with Lily had been few and precious, and he wept when she wasn’t around, haunted by her absence. He’d have to pull himself together before standing before the judge, fending for the right to raise his only child. 

He yelped when he felt a hand down south, water flying in every direction.

“… I-I,” he stammered as he redirected his attention to Brian, whose faced was screwed up into a rather perplexed expression. He was holding a sponge and had clearly been trying to give him a thorough wash. Then he started laughing.

“Jesus, Depp. Did you fall asleep on me?”

“No-no,” he said hastily. Too hastily, perhaps. “I just… I have a hard time concentrating when people are… washing my hair. Or touching my hair.”

Brian laughed. “Admit it. You dozed off.”

“Alright, baby doll. I did.”

“Gave you a bit of a rude awakening there,” he joked. Then he moved his hand – and the sponge – down below the water again, brushing against his privates. He immediately gave an appreciative groan.

“Not so rude, no.”

“… Bedroom?”

Johnny smiled. “I should dry off first.”

* * *

They were in bed. The room was lit with sunlight from both windows, seeing as the actor had drawn the curtains, insisting that they needed some sun. His brown hair shone in the light, creating the illusion of a golden halo around his head, and his skin glowed. Funny how he seemed a new man from the wreck who had nervously waited in his hallway the day before. Smelled better, too. Brian hadn’t really used that shampoo himself – he normally used some feminine products for dyed hair – but he enjoyed the scent on him. He’d totally buy that brand again.

“… Now,” Johnny said, gloriously naked on top of the sheets. “Are you finally gonna-”

“Jesus Christ, Johnny,” Brian said, scrunching his nose up in disgust. “Would you stop pestering me like that? I don’t want to shove my-”

“I want you to.”

The singer hated that self-satisfied smirk almost as much as he loved it. Johnny constantly shifted between confident bordering on arrogant and nervously shy, but he had been abundantly clear where the act of penetration was concerned. In Brian’s head, this was a bit worrisome. There was more to sex – even gay sex – than just taking it up the ass, and he was certain Johnny hadn’t been doing much of that before. It would be a new experience. So yeah, if they could avoid a clumsy and painful first time, that’d be for the best. Basically, if they could avoid a Hildesheim II, that’d be preferable. He wanted Johnny to like it.

“I don’t want to _fuck _you,” he said, annoyance creeping into his voice. “No, I could fuck just about any goddamn slut. I want this to be, I don’t know…” He faltered, unable to find the right word. When he gazed into the soft brown eyes that waited for some kind of an explanation, he gave up.

“… Special?” Johnny suggested after some time, eyes sparkling.

“Yeah,” he muttered, feeling awkward. “I want to… um…”

Suddenly, the actor was laughing hard. Brian wanted to sink through the floor.

“Oh, baby doll,” Johnny said quietly, his eyes gleaming as he held his gaze. “You’re delightful, you know. You want us to make love, not fuck.”

Brian growled, angry with himself for being such a wuss and even angrier with the older man for mocking him for his insecurities. In one swift movement, he threw himself on top of him, pressing him down into the mattress. To Johnny, the room momentarily tilted. Then he saw only Brian’s face, his dark eyes locked on him. He felt his hands on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

“… I want you,” Johnny murmured, his hands stroking down his back. The skin there was smooth, though his arms and chest were covered in small, shiny scars, some more prominent than others. He knew he had put them there himself, some in the heat of the moment, the crowd urging him on, and others out of self-hatred, perhaps on nights he had shared only with the green fairy. Now curious, he traced his fingers over the scars on his torso, some of them still covered by a thin crust.

“They’re ugly,” the singer whispered, his expression softening. “I know they are.

“Ah, well. I’ve got a few myself.”

Brian snorted. He wasn’t really interested in talking about it. Without saying another word, he bent his head and pressed his mouth against Johnny’s warm, soft lips, silencing all words. As their lips touched, the brunet felt himself melting, his every cell screaming for more. Oh, the smell of his skin – no cologne, no soap – and the feel of those plump, delicate lips. The kiss was tentative at first, hesitant almost, but then he kissed him harder, demanding access. Johnny gave in, of course, parting his lips for him. It turned into a bruising kiss, the kind that leaves you hot and flustered, though it couldn’t last forever.

“… I want you too, Depp.”

“What are you waiting for, then?”

He recaptured his lips, both of them smiling into the kiss. This one was slow and intense, though it wasn’t particularly sweet. It was open-mouthed and needy, their tongues dancing and searching, wanting to get closer and closer. Johnny’s hand flew up to just below Brian’s ear, his thumb caressing his cheek. They were impossibly close now, their chests pressed together, their hearts beating together. They broke apart, both of them breathing heavily, their eyes gleaming with want.

“… Not bad,” the actor murmured, his voice raw. “Not bad at all”

The singer rolled his eyes, letting out another huff. Johnny savored the sight of him, undressed and vulnerable, and he somehow got the feeling he was looking at him for the first time. His slender frame. His narrow, naked face. His big nose. Swollen lips. Long neck. But beyond his physical appearance, he saw this beauty that only a handful of people had ever gotten to see. The man without the mask. An artist not hiding behind his art, stripped of more than his clothes. Johnny was beginning to really like that man, Brian Warner, who was mostly hiding in the shadows of his creation.

He hooked his hand behind his neck and pulled him closer, their lips crashing together. For a couple of delicious seconds, they just kissed, hands wandering wherever hands wanted to wander. It became increasingly more sexual, the touching driving them both mad with lust. Brian pushed a knee between Johnny’s thighs, forcing them apart. He let out a gasp, though not surprised. Both of them were hard and ready for more, thrusting against one another. The brunet slid his arms around the younger man’s neck, running his fingers through his silky, black hair. Brian let go of his mouth and latched onto his neck, showering him with kisses. 

“Are you going to-”

“Shush it,” Brian complained, pulling back. When he saw the pleading look in the actor’s eyes, he gave a devilish little smile and, seemingly out of nowhere, produced a small bottle of lube. He coated his fingers with the stuff, which smelled distinctly like mint.

“… What position?”

Johnny’s eyes widened a little. “Ah, um. I haven’t got the faintest idea, to tell you the truth.”

Brian chuckled. “Well, I’m sure you’ve had sex at least once. Straight or not, it isn’t always that different.”

“Yes, I suspect you’re right, baby doll. I just, um…”

_Now who’s blushing, Mr. Depp? Certainly not me. _

“I’d like to see your face,” he eventually said, voice more amused than embarrassed.

“Oh, I agree.”

Johnny’s legs were already fastened around his waist. He grabbed one of the pillows and shoved it beneath the actor, propping his ass up further. Johnny spread his legs, waiting for whatever was to come with an enthusiastic smile on his lips.

“I’ll be gentle.”

“I know.”

The singer pressed his pinkie, still slick with that mint lubricant, against his asshole. He didn’t enter him yet, no, he just rubbed his fingertip against the tight opening, trying to familiarize him with the rather odd feeling. Johnny immediately tensed up, not able to help it. It was simply his body’s reaction to the intrusion. Brian’s eyes shot up from what he was doing, sensing his discomfort.

“… Try not to resist it,” he instructed him. “And I’ll always stop if you want me to. Just say the magic word-”

“What word?”

Brian smiled. “Oh, you know, ‘stop’. It works on me.”

Johnny opened his mouth to say something, probably another apology, but before he could voice that thought, Brian pressed his fingertip against him, applying more pressure than before. When his fingertip slid into the tight, tight opening, Johnny let out a sharp gasp. The feeling was foreign. Alright, it wasn’t just that if was foreign, it was pretty damn weird. He felt like he had to take a dump.

“… Um, Brian,” he said, panicking a little.

“It’s fine,” the singer said, voice calm. “It’s normal.”

He gave a curt nod, relieved that he had understood without needing an explanation.

The singer started fucking him with his finger. Johnny let out a strangled moan of both pleasure and pain, only now realizing that the lube felt cold – very cold – and his eyes locked with Brian’s as he asked, “The lube?”

“I thought it’d help.” He gave a flimsy smile. “D’you hate it?”

“No-no. Just… ah!” Another finger was added, stretching him out. It burned a little, but the cooling sensation of the lube served as a nice contrast. “Just strange,” he breathed, his face twisting into an odd grimace. “Very strange.”

“I know – it’s normal. This’ll help.” Upon saying that, Brian’s free hand locked around his dick, caressing him just the right way. Now things were starting to get interesting. For some reason, the fingers up his bum made the hand job a thousand times better. He felt himself clenching around the fingers. It was pretty damn hot. But the intensity of the moment faded a little when the fingers sunk deep inside him. Now it burned. He tried not to let it show on his face, but Brian slowed down at once, waiting for him to adjust.

“… Hey,” he said, his expression caught between amusement and concern. “You’ve got to tell me if it doesn’t feel right, ok? I can’t read your mind, Depp.”

“Mm. Sure.”

He continued thrusting into him, long fingers poking at his insides. It was as uncomfortable as it was comfortable, probably because he hadn’t been stretched out before. Brian, who wasn’t a psychic but certainly talented at reading body language, added more lube. Johnny relaxed. The fingers were buried inside him once more, but now they brushed against that rumored sweet spot he’d heard of so often. He let out a sharp cry, his body all but convulsing with pleasure.

“Johnny?” Brian sounded concerned again. “Everything’s alright?”

“That’s… oh! God, Marilyn, that’s lovely.”

The singer grinned victoriously at that, his fingers sliding in and out of his warmth while his other hand stroked his dick. He was ignoring his own throbbing erection, focusing solely on Johnny’s pleasure. But when he suddenly took a hold of his hand, keeping him from thrusting into him, and looked at him with desire shining in his eyes, he felt overwhelmed by lust.

“Come on, Marilyn,” he whispered huskily, his smile as cocky as it was loving. What betrayed him were his eyes, so full of uncertainty and some kind of apprehension. In spite of that, he licked his lips seductively – and you couldn’t have convinced the singer for a second he wasn’t acting – and said, “I want you to… now.”

Brian nodded, offering a reassuring smile. “Yeah.”

He positioned himself between Johnny’s legs, his hand sliding down his thigh in a gentle caress, making him tremble ever so slightly. When the brunet glanced down at the sizable organ, he let out a peculiar noise, quite possibly a squeak of surprise. The singer wrinkled his forehead, a questioning look on his face. He knew he was big, it wasn’t that, but he didn’t want to intimidate him. That wasn’t the point, and they weren’t playing silly, petty games anymore.

“Johnny,” he said quietly. “You know you don’t have to do this, right? We’re already ‘even’.”

Johnny drew in a sharp breath and said, “I want this, love. I do.”

“But _please_, tell me if something doesn’t feel right.”

Brian found the lube again, coating his dick with the stuff. He pressed the tip of his dick against the puckered opening and was relieved to find that he was able to slide inside with relative ease.

_Oh, holy fucking shit – that’s amazing, _he thought, now encompassed by his warmth. _That’s so fucking good. _

“Ouch,” Johnny said dryly, the faintest trace of panic present in his voice. At the same time, Brian felt the tight ring of muscle clenching around him, desperately trying to fight off the foreign object lodged in his bum. Johnny gave a small sound of discomfort as Brian clutched his ass, keeping him in place.

“Relax,” the singer murmured, kissing him softly on the mouth. “You’ve got to relax, Johnny. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He grunted in response and tried to adjust, both of them unmoving. After a few seconds, the sharp pain subsided.

“I’m alright.”

Brian started moving again, penetrating him up to his full length. Johnny squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a harsh breath as he tried to come to terms with it all. The singer wrapped his hand around his stiff member once more, stroking and fondling him. Then he started rocking his hips back and forth, settling into a steady rhythm. The movement inside him made Johnny cry out, his words nothing but gibberish. Pain had slowly melted into pleasure.

“I told you to say something,” Brian muttered. “Are you-”

“Yes-yes-yes,” he said hastily, his hands pulling the singer closer. “Fucking move!”

_Well, if you insist. _Brian slid into him again, his movements still slow and controlled. Johnny surprised him by letting out a dismayed growl, wondering why on earth he was stalling when he needed to feel him deep inside. He arched upwards to take all of him, moaning as he brushed against that sweet, sweet spot he hadn’t known about until then. Now, if that wasn’t the most arousing thing Brian had ever seen and felt, he didn’t know what was. He repeated the motion, hitting his prostate again and again, smiling every time he heard the actor letting out short, sharp gasps and moans. His muscles tightened eagerly around his dick, the barrier gone. He had surrendered himself to the pleasure. Yes, the slight discomfort was still there – it’d probably hurt in the morning too – but that glorious ecstasy surpassed all pain, completely overpowering him.

“Faster,” he breathed into Brian’s ear. The singer sped up, plunging his dick in as fast as he could. Johnny cried out, feeling as though he were about to explode like an atom bomb. Brian pounded into him, harder and harder, thoroughly enjoying how he moaned with every thrust. He was trembling now, like a leaf in the wind, biting down on his lower lip to keep himself from screaming. The singer knew he was about to come, and he kept up a steady but intense rhythm. Johnny sucked in lungfuls of air, lifting his hips to meet his thrusts and obeying an instinct he hadn’t known he possessed. Then the spasms started coming. He clung to his lover for dear life, his nails digging into his back. Brian knew he would leave marks. He didn’t mind.

“… Shit, shit, shit!” Johnny cried in between gasps. His eyes shot open, drinking in the sight of the singer, his lips slightly parted, his forehead glistening with sweat and his eyes fierce. “I-I’m gonna… I…”

As his speech became incoherent, his voice died away. All he could do was breathe, feeling delirious as ripples of ecstasy flooded through him. Brian claimed his mouth, loving the taste of him – of cigarettes and coffee and bacon. Of something that was purely him. Something indefinable. The kiss they shared was rough, mouths clashing together, tongues stroking. It was raw and desperate. It was beautiful.

“Brian,” he moaned, nails clawing at his back. “Ah, B-Brian!”

“I’m here,” he whispered against his lips. “I’m right here.”

His cries were loud and desperate. The singer knew he wouldn’t last much longer at this pace, but those cries drove him mad with pleasure. He ground his hips into him, faster and faster now, and he stroked his dick more firmly, applying more pressure. Johnny let out a string of profanities, yelling something about being close. Then, as he whispered his name over and over, he felt him clenching uncontrollably around his dick, his body trembling. With a sharp, uninhibited cry of fulfillment, he spilled himself into the singer’s hand, his body writhing with the aftershocks of his orgasm. And then Brian was coming too, shuddering and convulsing as he climaxed. The only sound he let out was a harsh, uneven breath. Then he collapsed on top of the smaller man, his face buried in his neck, savoring the citrusy scent of the shampoo.

“… Brian,” he breathed, his hand searching for the younger man’s. Once he found it, he entwined their fingers. Wasn’t sure why. He just loved holding hands after – a weird habit of his.

The singer kissed his neck softly, murmuring, “That was beautiful,” against his skin. He then rolled off, pulling out in the process. Johnny wouldn’t admit it, of course, but having his back turned on him left him feeling strangely empty. They should be cuddling, enjoying the afterglow of their lovemaking. No, this wouldn’t do, not really. He wanted to take a hold of his shoulders and pull him back under the duvet, but he saw that he had found those damn baby wipes again and was using them to clean up his mess. Oh, yes, he had his spunk splattered all over his abdomen. He even had some drops on his chest.

“Here,” the younger man said, handing him some baby wipes. Johnny had all but forgotten about the lovely gift he’d been left with, chuckling a little as he wiped away the sticky, white semen from between his legs. Brian watched him intently, watched the pale, milky fluid being washed away, and a sense of terrible déjà vu crept up on him. Only there wasn’t blood this time. Only there hadn’t been any force. Nor had there been any malevolence brought on by jealousy. Johnny noticed that his face had hardened into an expression of resentment, and he immediately understood what he was thinking about.

“… I’m sorry,” he said for the millionth time. “I truly am.”

The apology worked like a charm, the anger retreating back into that charred core of his heart. Brian swallowed thickly and said, “I’m not angry, Depp. I just started thinking…”

Johnny pressed his fingers to his lips and let out a muffled, “I know.”

“But you know what else? That shit doesn’t matter anymore.” The singer shook his head, wishing his memory could’ve been more selective. Why couldn’t he just forget all of it? It had been a one-time mishap anyways, and Johnny – his Johnny – was kind and loving. If he’d made a mess of things once, then so be it. Hell, Brian himself was hardly the epitome of saintly virtue. He’s committed a couple of sins, errors and misdeeds in his time. When he glanced up from the baby wipes, now crumpled up on the sheets, and met Johnny’s concerned eyes, he said, “Today blew me away.”

“I’m glad,” Johnny said, his lips curving into a relieved smile. “And, well, yesterday blew me away-”

Brian snorted. “Oh, believe me, I know.”

“You’re terribly good at that.”

“I’m good at all ungodly acts.”

The actor nodded. “I wouldn’t argue with you about that.” 

“Indeed.” A corner of his mouth lifted. This budding relationship wasn’t anything like his past ones. There was something so organic about their interactions – something so blatantly normal about the way they communicated – Brian didn’t even know what to think of it. Was he gay after all? Or maybe he was gay exclusively for Johnny Depp, which wouldn’t be surprising.

_Nothing surprises me anymore. _He tucked a lock of hair behind his ear, watching Johnny’s naked form out of the corner of his eye. _Nothing._

He moved closer to the actor on the bed and put his hand on a muscular, tanned thigh. Without looking at him, he said, “I’d like to do this again. In fact, I’d go as far as to say I’d like to do this again on a daily basis, preferably several times a day.” Their eyes locked like magnets, both of them grinning. 

“Yes, I agree. That’d be preferable.”

The singer leaned in for another kiss, chaste and sweet and perfectly innocent. And as he put his arms around the actor, his back pressed against his chest, he thought that life was finally heading in the right direction. Well, his personal life. Relationships had never been his forte, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yes, it's still sweet enough to inspire toothache, but... they deserve a little bit of happiness? Heh.


	10. In our Space

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's late again :)) I've been stressing out about school lately so there's that...

December 2, 2001

Los Angeles, California

Two months had gone by. Brian was sitting in an antique Chesterfield armchair, pretending to read a book about Milan during the Renaissance. The book didn’t really interest him, having read it once or twice already. Besides, he was busy watching Johnny out of the corner of his eye, following his every movement. The man had only just discovered his private library, a discovery halted by their more or less constant bedroom activities, and was going through each and every title, letting out a hum of agreement every time he stumbled across something he’d read before. It wasn’t that they were very similar, not at all, but they had read a lot of the same books. They both favored writers such as Charles Baudelaire, Friedrich Nietzsche and Edgar Allan Poe. Before they started fucking, they had discussed their works all night long, all the while drinking whiskey and listening to music from the 60s and 70s, everything from The Doors to Black Sabbath, and when Johnny had gotten his way, a Dylan song or two.

“I know you’re watching me, love,” Johnny said, breaking into a broad-lipped smile. “Can feel it.”

Brian frowned at the accusation and mumbled, “Who, me?” in a disinterested tone of voice. When he finally glanced up from his book, still on page seventeen, he couldn’t keep himself from smiling. “Don’t be so self-conceited, Mr. Depp. Not everything’s about you, you know.”

Johnny stared at him with a knowing look on his face, one eyebrow raised and his chocolate eyes sparkling with amusement. Then there was something else. Had Brian been less of a pessimist and more or a romantic, he would’ve said it was love. But he wasn’t. Not at all.

“Oh, and by the way, how come you’ve got a copy of ‘Les Fleurs du mal’ in French?” 

“I don’t need a reason.”

“I’ll teach you a bit of French, if you’d like.”

Brian snorted. “As if. You said you’re barely able to order a cup of coffee and a croissant without sounding like an idiot.”

“Well, to my defense,” the actor began to say, licking his lips, “I’m way better at reading and understanding French than I am at actually speaking French.”

“_Casse-toi, _Depp.”

The actor smiled, wondering if Brian knew how badly he had botched the pronunciation, and resumed to going through the library, scanning the shelves for familiar titles. His collection was vast and incorporated most genres, everything from horror to heavy history books. Many of them were inexpensive paperbacks bought in the 80s on a student’s meagre budget. He’d been just as broke back in the day, but yeah, Brian was more nostalgic than he was, having kept all his old books.

“See something you like?”

“I see you.”

The singer scrunched up his nose and said, “Don’t be cheesy.”

Johnny had to laugh at that, moving on to the next shelf. He ran his fingers down the spine of _Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus_. It wasn’t a paperback, but it wasn’t a costly edition either. Curious, he pulled it out and started turning the pages, intrigued to find that Brian had scribbled down notes on every freaking page, no exceptions. His handwriting was atrocious though. Johnny had to read each line at least five times before he could decipher all the words.

“… ‘Frankenstein is an emotionally detached dickhead who serves as a parody of Benjamin Franklin and the Age of Enlightenment, which is clearly…’,” he furrowed his brow, unsure of what the following words meant, the handwriting completely unreadable. When he looked up from the yellowing page, he said, “Wrote Brian Hugh Warner in 1986,” voice bleeding with mirth.

Brian inwardly cringed, not even remembering what he’d written. Some years ago, he had decided to read as many books as possible. This had been done with the intent of becoming an author himself, which had eventually happened but not without a ghostwriter. Either way, he hated how pathetic his old self had been, and he hated that Johnny had to know about that. 

“Yeah, I used to have a thing for the timeless classics,” he said, sounding nonchalant. But like always, his skin was what gave him away. He was blushing. Hell, even his ears were red.

“You’re not very hard to read, you know.”

The singer just grunted in response. Johnny continued skimming through the silly notes, some comments more serious than others. When his cellphone started vibrating on the coffee table, he flinched and muttered something unintelligible under his breath. After a couple of seconds, Brian’s eyes shot up from page seventeen of his book. He saw that Johnny had a strange look on his face, his mouth set in a hard line.

“Aren’t you gonna answer that?”

He shook his head, whispering, “No. It’s nothing.”

“It’s her, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice hardening. “I haven’t looked at my damn phone.”

The singer gave him a long look before picking up the ‘damn phone’, looking at the caller ID. Sure enough, it was Vanessa. There were eight missed calls. She had also sent him quite a few text messages, and while he wouldn’t read Johnny’s private messages, he saw the words ‘Answer me’ and ‘asshole’. He shot a disapproving glance at the older man, saying, “You can’t just ignore her, Johnny.”

“Why?” he grumbled. “She’s just cussing me out.”

Brian rolled his eyes, getting up from the armchair and handing him his cellphone back.

“Call her,” he said in a calm tone of voice.

“No-no. It’s nothing. Truly, it’s nothing. The woman’s been pestering me ever since I left France-”

“Could be about your daughter for all you know,” Brian said, interrupting him. “Don’t be stupid. You’re still married to the broad – and you’ve got a baby with her. I mean, you’ve got to raise your girl _with _her. If you act like a fucking baboon, she’ll gain full custody-”

“Fuck off, man!” Johnny said in a raised voice, his eyes dark. “I’ve been dealing with her nonsense for the last couple of months. She’s dragging me to court – I’ve been talking more to my lawyer than to my own child – and yes, I’m fucking terrified I’ll lose Lily.” He bit his lip, looking down at his socks. They were dirty. “I-I don’t know what to do. What to tell her. She just wants me to give in and live the rest of my life in misery.”

“… She wants you to stay together?”

He remained silent for a couple of seconds, chewing at his lip in a thoughtful manner. “Yes,” he whispered silently, burying his face in his hands and groaning. “Yes. She’s in love with me still. I don’t know how she can be! I’ve been a total dick to her. She’s just putting up with all my bullshit like it’s nothing.”

“Does she…” Brian put his hand on Johnny’s waist, pulling him in for a hug. “Does she know about me?”

“No,” he whispered into his shoulder, his voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. “I… I just said there was someone else in my life. Someone else that I’m in love with – and that I’m not into her anymore. Hell, she tried… tried seducing me.” He gave a mirthless laugh, both embarrassed and frustrated. “My dick wouldn’t get hard, you know. It was… Jesus, it was awful. Would’ve thought that spelled it out for her, but no.” 

Brian exhaled deeply and said, “She’s in denial, Johnny.”

“I know,” the actor murmured. “Won’t listen to reason.”

“It’ll be okay. These things are never easy – just think of Rose and her childish temper tantrums.”

Johnny smiled. “I found it a bit charming, to be honest with you. That girl is a real whack job.”

“All women are.” Brian snorted, thinking about all the psycho bitches he’d slept with over the years.

“Yeah,” Johnny sighed. “I’ll never get rid of her, you know. She’ll be on my case forever and ever, and she has my balls in her grip. If she’s smart about it, I won’t get to see…” He trailed off, unable to finish that sentence.

_You won’t get to see Lily again, _the frontman finished inside his head. Johnny looked as though on the verge of tears, and understandably so. That was his child, after all.

“It’ll be okay,” Brian said again in a calm, unhurried voice. He kissed the older man on the forehead and rested his chin on the top of his head. In spite of the heaviness in his stomach, brought on by concern regarding the divorce, he still felt the butterflies fluttering around. His heart was beating hard and wild against the walls of his ribcage, always springing to life when he was near. Johnny too felt safer like that, with strong arms wrapped protectively around him, shielding him from the horrors of the outside world. It wasn’t just about Vanessa, not really. He had escaped the darkness – the captivity – of his marital life, but the light at the end of the tunnel was the flash of a camera. Sooner or later, there would be a media uproar. If there was something he loathed, it was being the target of the paparazzi. No privacy whatsoever. It’d get on his nerves to the point where he just couldn’t keep his cool. Brian knew all about that. He’d felt the bite of the viper himself once or twice, the potency of the poison varying from one occasion to the next. One incident stood out, of course, and that was Columbine, still a fresh wound.

“I know I’m an idiot for not answering her,” he said, letting out a deep sigh. When Brian let go of him, he immediately missed the feel of his arms. Missed being close. It was ridiculous how dependent he was on him now, for comfort and for everything, really. They had hardly even left the house. Hell, they’d hardly even left the bed, rolling around in the hay like two unruly teenagers.

“She may be in denial, but you’re avoiding a necessary confrontation here. Sometimes, when we’re being particularly blind to the truth, we need to get hit in the head by a bullet.”

Johnny nodded, eyes clouding over with sadness. “I know.”

“And I’ll be here every step of the way,” Brian promised, pressing a kiss to his lips. “You’ve just got to tell me what’s happening, alright? I still haven’t mastered the art of mindreading.”

The actor smiled at that. “Well, you do read me quite accurately most of the time.”

“Maybe you’re just a bad actor.”

“Maybe,” Johnny agreed. He’d often wondered if the rest of the world was mad to adore his every career move, or was it just his pretty face they liked so much? The thought was sickening. Maybe that was why he couldn’t stand to watch any of his own films.

“Now,” the younger man said, slapping him on the ass, which resulted in a surprised little yelp. For once, Brian wasn’t the one blushing. “Make yourself useful and cook me a decent meal. But no shrimp, please.”

_Reminds me too much of those crazy bitches. And pink vomit._

“Steak it is,” the brunet said, his sorrows forgotten as he leaned in for another smooch. How he adored Marilyn Manson and his soft, soft heart.

* * *

They were in the bedroom. Well, that was hardly something new. What was new was that they weren’t busy boning. Johnny was going through a pile of books he had dragged up the stairs, insisting that the natural light from the big windows was better for his eyes than the yellow light flooding from the antique lamps in the study. Brian had just grunted at that. He’d always drawn the curtains, not wanting to be seen by the sun. It was a well-kept secret that he tanned easily and therefore avoided daylight like the vampire some people suspected he was.

“… Is this you?”

He cracked one eye open. “Is who me?”

“This.” Johnny handed him an old photo album that was about as heavy as a boulder. He hadn’t seen the damn thing in ages and had actually thought it’d gotten lost, or that Rose, the witch, had burnt it along with some old manuscripts and poems he’d left out in the open. Oh yeah, that had happened the night he’d given Johnny a makeover. At least she hadn’t found the old photo album, the only one he’d kept from his late teens and early twenties.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Depp.” He didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry. The picture was from the 80s, before he’d gotten laid for the first time, which had been an unholy experience on a whole other level in itself, and he was sporting a remarkably frizzy mullet, wore a white suit jacket and yes, his skin was an uncomely yellowish-brown color. He’d spent some time in a solarium to achieve that ghastly complexion, and why? Well, his acne had been severe back then. A doctor’s advice had been to get a tan. It had helped, but at a cost.

“It’s you?”  
  


“Not everyone was a teen idol in the 80s. Some of us were ugly ducklings.”

_Not that I ever became a fucking swan. More like a worm turning into a moth. Or a malaria-carrying mosquito._

“That mullet though!” Johnny barked a laugh. “Maybe you should cut your hair like that again. Where d’you keep your scissors?”

“… Asked Edward Scissorhands.”

“Oh, my,” Johnny whispered as he flicked the page. Now they were looking at a picture of Brian and his first flame, at least the first serious one, a picture that still made him cringe. She was undeniably beautiful, young and with fine features, but then again, she’d been an evil wench. No amount of outward beauty could cover up the ugly truth.

“Who’s the babe?”

“Michele.”

Johnny raised a brow at the curt reply.

“Michele?”

“Yeah. My first real girlfriend.” Brian shook his head, aware that he was being stupid. It probably wasn’t healthy to be as bitter as he was, especially when so many years had gone by since that picture had been taken. Why was he holding a grudge anyways? He was hardly the same person he’d been back then, and while he didn’t want to admit it, if it hadn’t been for her, his career wouldn’t have rocketed.

_Maybe I’d still be writing short stories and poems nobody wants to read_, he thought. Sure, he still penned some lines here and there, but only for his own pleasure. _I should be more grateful to her for being such a dark muse – killing my heart and making me into a cold bastard._If he’d been an even bigger asshole than he already was, he would’ve sent her a bouquet of flowers and a thank you card.

“… First heartbreak?”

Brian nodded, now smiling a little. “Yeah. It was fucking torture. I was an ugly loser and this chick, who was a model, believe it or not, suddenly decided she was into my sorry ass. Then she went abroad for a couple of months for work. I tried calling her – she was in France at the time – and some guy picked up the phone. That was her fiancé.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah,” the singer said, putting his hand on top of Johnny’s. “Now she’s fat.”

Johnny laughed. “Ah, I see. That’s an appropriate punishment, isn’t it? The same thing happened to the once beautiful girl who broke my heart when I was a teenager. I was pining for her, and then there was this party. We made out, but she left me hanging and went for this jock with big muscles.” He pursed his mouth in a self-satisfied smirk upon mentioning this. Her loss, wasn’t it? “Oh well, she actually married the guy. They’ve got four kids.”

“What, she turned _you _down? That’s probably the biggest regret of her life.”

Johnny shrugged. “This might surprise you to learn, but I’m not for everyone, darling.”

Brian huffed. “I should hope not.”

“You’ve probably banged more chicks than I have,” the actor pointed out, punching him playfully in the shoulder. Brian caught the hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it.

“Well, you are talking to the God of fuck, after all.”

_Only I haven’t really fucked that many girls_, he thought to himself, now wondering about numbers. He didn’t believe for a second that Johnny, who’d famously popped his cherry at age thirteen, hadn’t slept around with countless women. _Jesus, Brian, stop acting like such a stupid cunt. Doesn’t matter, does it?_

“Oh, oh, oh,” Johnny said as he turned another page. They were in the early 90s now. Brian still wasn’t shaving his eyebrows, had long hair and was even skinnier than he was now. He’d been very self-conscious about his weight back then, feeling as though he looked like a starved Auschwitz prisoner, and the girls had usually opted for the men with strong arms and broad shoulders, avoiding him the way you avoid a steaming pile of dog-doo on the sidewalk. While he had put on some weight since then, learned what’s appropriate to talk to women about and what isn’t, and had all in all become more comfortable in his own skin, he still felt a little weirded out by the pictures. He couldn’t have weighed more than 145 pounds back then. And alright, Melissa, one of his girlfriends from around that time, had been an eyeful, but so what? It wasn’t his good looks she had fallen for.

“… Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said, running a hand through his hair, frowning. “I was ugly as fuck.”

“What?” Johnny sounded appalled. “You were freakin’ gorgeous, love. Didn’t know you had such wonderful eyebrows.”

“No need for flattery, Depp.”

The actor rolled his eyes at him, wondering why on earth his self-esteem was so low. “I always assumed you shaved them off because they were big and bushy, like two caterpillars,” he teased, provoking him on purpose. 

“I was so skinny back then,” the singer said, ignoring the very dry caterpillar comment. “No wonder the girls ran in the opposite direction of me, ha-ha. Who wants to shag a socially awkward noodle?” A smile tugged at his lips, but his voice was tainted by the faintest trace of bitterness. And it hadn’t been an overstatement. He’d transitioned from the downright despicable creature with the frizzy mullet to a gawky, long-limbed imbecile who probably thought saying ‘You maybe aren’t the most attractive woman in the room, but beauty is only a light switch away,’ was a compliment. He’d been a socially retarded moron half his life, and the cure? Why, drugs, of course.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Handsomest-man-in-the-world.”

“Yeah, well,” Johnny said, scratching the back of his head. “I’ve never been comfortable with all that mumbo-jumbo. Wasn’t ever interested in being a teen idol. And yeah, that’s why I wasted so much time drinking and doing drugs. I didn’t want to be ‘novelty boy’ and didn’t want to be looked at, really. So I disappeared into that hole in the ground, like Alice.”

Brian didn’t really need to hear about it. He’d gone through the same thing. Drugs had perhaps opened a couple of doors for him early on, but all the pleasurable, hedonistic things you do for the sake of curing your boredom will end up devouring your soul. You rely on it for everything. Sobriety had saved him. In the not too distant past, he’d done a lot of dying through drug abuse. Some would argue that he was still abusing alcohol, seeing as he had more than his fourteen units a week, and in all honesty, if he’d kept to that rule, he’d consider himself as sober as a nun. He wouldn’t ever quit the absinthe, couldn’t stand being sober all the time, but the rest? Sure. He didn’t miss the hard drugs one bit, and he was a bit ashamed that he’d allowed himself to sink so low in the first place. 

“I think we’re more similar than we think we are,” the frontman pointed out. Johnny just shrugged. It was true enough.

“Let’s go cool down in the pool,” he suggested, putting the photo album aside. “Oh, and I’m in dire need of a drink.”

As they walked down the stairs, their fingers interlocked and with laughter spilling from their lips, Johnny’s cellphone started vibrating on the night table. No one heard save Lily White, who rested on top of her stack of newspapers with one of Brian’s dirty socks for a makeshift pillow.

* * *

Danny, Brian’s private chauffeur, had dropped them off at the mansion after a particularly romantic dinner by the sea. The sky was beginning to grow dark, but the last rays of the sun still cast a faint, orange light on the horizon. The day was dying though, slowly being devoured by the night. After a hellishly hot day of relentless sunshine, dusk brought a delicious coolness to the air, something they both welcomed. Brian thought it was a pity they weren’t on the countryside, wishing they could have seen the stars as they started to appear. Even the moon was just a thin crescent, a couple of dark clouds misting across it. The sight felt strangely empty, almost like staring at a blank page.

“Look at that sky,” Brian muttered. “What a pathetic excuse for a starry night, eh? We should travel to Europe.”

“Europe?” Johnny repeated. “As long as it isn’t France. I effing hate France.”

“You don’t hate France; you just hate the women.”

“Alright, alright.”

Johnny sat down on the veranda railing and began rolling a smoke. It wasn’t one of his suspicious-smelling cigarettes that sometimes inspired Brian to hum the melody of ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’, no, he was already in an unusually good mood. His new lover was opinionated, articulate and resolute, and persuading him to eat sushi had been hard, really fucking hard, but after a couple of hours of nagging, he’d caved in. Yeah, yeah, he’d been sulky when they’d arrived at the restaurant, complaining that he’d get mercury poisoning, explosive diarrhea _and _cancer, but once he’d been served some sake that had been gently warmed and served in tiny porcelain cups, he’d been all smiles. The food had mysteriously disappeared from his plate, probably having grown legs and wandered off. It had been good.

“… Fuck, my lighter-”

“Here.” Brian produced a lighter and lit it for him. Funny. The lighter had the words ‘Marilyn Manson’ written on it – band merchandise – and depicted him.

“Oh, can I keep it?” he asked with the cigarette in his mouth.

“Yeah, I’ve got a few,” the singer said, handing him the lighter. When their fingers brushed, they both paused what they were doing, staring at one another. Brian was already lost in the paradise of his warm, brown eyes, sensing his every thought. Some were more innocent than others. When the actor eventually looked away, some color tinting his cheeks, he blew out a puff of smoke and watched the white vapor as it floated out in front of him, disappearing into the night. He then tucked the lighter into his hip pocket and murmured, “I’m really happy right now, Marilyn.”

The singer sat down next to him on the railing and brushed his hair back from his shoulder, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his neck. Johnny was sensitive there and the contact was enough to make him moan a little. He wasn’t hard, not yet, but he wasn’t far from it either. The younger man didn’t kiss him again though, he just placed his hand on his thigh and leaned his head on his shoulder, appreciating the closeness. While there weren’t any stars up in the sky, at least he had Johnny. _His _Johnny.

“… I’m happy too.”

Johnny put his arm around him and rested his head against his. For a couple of minutes, they just sat there, feeling the temperature drop as the last of the sunlight ebbed away. The moment was ruined when the veranda door was slammed into the wall, Jeordie standing there with a rather wild expression on his face.

“What-the-hell, Jeordie?” Brian wanted to know, his voice raised. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Uh, uh…” Jeordie said, clearly baked. “Uh, this lady’s waiting in the living room – she’s been here for some time – with, um… child.” He wrinkled his forehead in concentration, as if he was having a hard time remembering what to say. “And she wants to… wants to talk…” He paused, staring at Johnny with bloodshot eyes, waving his index finger at him. “… to you.”

Upon hearing this, Brian became wide-eyed, feeling as though the bassist had just dropped an ice bucket over his head.

“It’s not Vanessa, is it?”

Jeordie squinted his eyes and let out a thoughtful, “Hmm,” trying to remember. He then shook his head. “I, uh, I don’t know, Mazz – but she’s… got an accent. Very nasal.”

He shot Johnny a look of concern and said, “Did she say something about coming here?”

“Well, no.”

“… You didn’t talk to her, did you?”

“No.”

Brian’s eyes widened for a second before narrowing in anger. Of course he had to be a coward. Vanessa was probably fuming, wondering what on earth was going on and who her soon-to-be ex-husband was boning. No surprises there, especially when a kid was involved.

“Alright,” he said, now gnashing his teeth. “Let’s go deal with this once and for all, shall we?”  
  


The brunet nodded his head slowly, stubbing out his cigarette in an empty flowerpot. A weak, “Alright,” fell from his lips as he slid down from the railing. Brian fixed him with an icy stare, but of course, the pitiful expression on his face, eyes huge and somewhat haunted, melted him completely.

“It will be fine, Depp,” he said, forcing himself to smile, but he failed miserably, resulting in an odd grimace.

“Yeah, yeah.”

They walked down the narrow hallway that led to the living room, their hearts racing. Brian was anticipating nothing less than hell on earth. He hadn’t really done wrong by her or by anyone, but it wasn’t so much about blame as it was about Johnny avoiding the problem. Vanessa had to be pretty darn desperate after weeks of nothing. How the fuck would she react to seeing the two of them together? Brian was used to rather violent confrontations with women, having had vases, plates and various other items hurled at him, so he wasn’t too concerned. But this wasn’t just about them, about one relationship ending and one starting. A child was present. A child had been dragged into the warzone. That was what frightened him the most about the whole mess.

Vanessa stood at the center of the room, her arms folded across her chest. She looked tired. Haggard. And the moment she saw Johnny walking in, she started crying. Lily wasn’t in the room – he’d strangle Jeordie at some point if he didn’t lay off the drugs – but someone else was. A man. He had gray hair, was overweight by fifty pounds and was in the midst of devouring a donut. Brian had no idea who this man was. He turned to Johnny, wanting to ask about it, but the actor shot him a strange look, a look he couldn’t decipher, and then he was suddenly on the other side of the room, one hand on Vanessa’s shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed and took a step backwards. Then, as her eyes darted from her husband to Marilyn Manson, a man she’d despised from the start, she started wailing.

“Vanessa-”

“No!” she screamed, tears and snot running down her face. “N-no. You and that – t-that thing! That bad, bad man…” Her voice cracked toward the end of the sentence, replaced by a low whining sound. She brought one hand to her face, wiping away stringy mucus and salty tears.

Johnny took a hold of her free hand, whispering, “What on earth are you talking about, Vanessa?”

“You know it! You know it, Johnny,” she continued to say, her words still a mystery to the two men. The fatty, who had now finished his damn donut, cleared his throat. Vanessa tore herself free from Johnny and pierced him with a glare that could only be described as murderous.

“What Mrs. Depp here is trying to say is that we’ve caught you red-handed, _Mr. Depp_.”

The actor frowned at the accusation, his eyes narrowing to slits, and said, “I’ve no idea what you’re on about, man.”

The guy rubbed his greasy fingers on his pant leg before turning his attention to the coffee table. A suitcase waited for him there, and he opened the lid, revealing some papers and a camera. He went through some of the papers before pulling out a yellow envelope, holding it up with a delighted smile on his chubby face.

“What d’you think this is, Mr. Depp?”

Johnny, more confused than ever before, just shook his head.

“Vanessa,” he said, sending her a long look. “What’s going on here?”

She blew her nose in a napkin handed to her by Brian. Then she stared at the singer, her eyes smoldering with hatred as she said, “I know what you have been doing.” The harshness of her voice startled him, and something inside his head just clicked. She knew. She fucking knew. Brian drew in a sharp breath, suddenly feeling nauseous – and a little worried. He looked at Johnny, desperately trying to think of something to say or do, but it was useless. The actor was staring at his ex-wife, his expression caught between anger and confusion, and when Vanessa didn’t clarify, he all but growled.

“… What I’ve been doing,” Johnny whispered under his breath and tore the envelope from the fat man’s hand, which resulted in him snickering. He just looked at it for a couple of seconds, wondering why the word ‘EVIDENCE’ was written on it in chunky, childlike letters. Then he gazed back up at her, wondering what the actual fuck was going on. 

“Who is this man?” he wanted to know.

“… I-”

“What, have the two of you been conspiring against me, is that it?” he barked, cutting her short. For a moment, Vanessa seemed as though she were about to speak, but the words didn’t come. In the presence of her very angry husband, she was tongue-tied – afraid, perhaps – and she swallowed hard at a tangle of words stuck in her throat, her eyes lingering on the fatty. Brian noticed that she was rubbing her belly in circles with one hand, trying to calm herself down or something, but it certainly looked… peculiar. Could be a tummy ache. He thought about telling her where the bathroom was, but considering she’d just called him a ‘thing’, he decided not to.

_I’ll just let her shit herself. Breaking and entering isn’t cool and neither is petty name-calling. _

“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” the actor asked when no one would answer.

“I suggest you see for yourself, Mr. Depp,” the stranger said in a strangely cheery tone of voice. Another donut was cradled in the palm of his hand, and he was smiling, terribly pleased with himself. “No reason to keep us waiting. It’s all in the envelope.”

Johnny held the man’s gaze for a few seconds, his eyes burning. Then, and with a bad taste in his mouth, he ripped the envelope open, only to find that it contained a collection of photos of him and Brian. Some of them were rather revealing, the two of them kissing and fondling one another. One photo made him growl out in frustration, feeling as though his toes had not only been stepped on, they had been crushed by a pair of very heavy boots. This man – this fat gnome – had been following them, taking photos of their most intimate moments together, and was now handing them the evidence of his crime with a smug look on his face. It was outrageous!

“_This _isn’t legal,” he curtly informed the man, his voice uneven. “Not in the slightest.”

The man chortled, his beady eyes gleaming with malicious glee. 

“Some statement,” he said, smacking his lips. “Especially when uttered by a cheating husband.”

The comment drew a dark smile from the actor, one bordering on a sneer. “One important fact has eluded you, my good man,” he said in a calm, unhurried voice. “Vanessa and I are in the middle of divorce proceedings, and I have already informed her that I have taken a lover. Perhaps Vanessa has failed to mention this to you?”

The man stopped chewing on his donut, his arrogance crumbling. He stuffed what remained of the sticky donut in his pocket and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. When he turned to look at Vanessa, he gave her a resigned headshake and said, “I believe Mrs. Depp forgot to fill me in on _all _the details, yes.”

“Ah, how unfortunate,” Johnny said dryly, smugly, folding his hands behind his back. He’d clearly recovered his poise.

“Yes, indeed.”

“… And what have you got to say for yourself?” he asked his soon-to-be ex-wife. “I’m rather curious.” 

Vanessa watched him with a pleading look on her face, wiping at her eyes – at the crocodile tears, Brian thought – before saying, “You weren’t answering my calls.” Her voice was hoarse from crying and the accent got thicker. “I have not heard from you in weeks! I just wanted…” – her voice cracked – “just wanted to _talk _to you.”

“And so you contacted this creep?” He almost laughed. “You hired this man to stalk me? To take photos?”

She let out another sob, unable to bite them back. Her little frame shook as she said, “There’s something you must know,” her desperation clear as day, and okay, maybe they weren’t crocodile tears after all. “There’s… I just…” She shook her head as she struggled to come up with a decent sentence in English, wishing she could speak her native tongue. The adrenaline was thick in her veins, her heart beating like heavy metal drums, nearly leaping from her chest. “It’s… it’s important, Johnny. It’s really important.”

“And that,” the actor’s normally handsome face twisted into a scowl, an angry vein visible on his forehead, “makes it okay to take photos of me and Brian…?” He sounded scandalized. It was almost comical, especially seeing as Brian was still in the dark about the photos.

She bit her lower lip, eyes filling with fresh tears.

“I just,” she hiccupped. “I-”

“No, shut up. Whatever this thing you can’t seem to tell me is, it certainly doesn’t justify taking pictures of me and Brian having sex.”

Upon hearing this, the singer looked as though someone had run him over with a tractor. He strode over to where Johnny was standing by the fireplace and grabbed the envelope, though Johnny seemed hesitant about letting him see them. As he started going through the photos one by one, his face paled underneath the make-up. One photo made him freeze, paralyzed. It was clearly the photo that had ticked Johnny off, and it showed him in the middle of performing oral sex on the actor, both of them naked. Not only was he humiliated, he was also frightened. If this left the room – if this reached a gossip magazine or the bloody news – they were doomed for all eternity. Brian, normally hot-headed and loud, was now quiet and passive. His anger was like ice in his veins and he couldn’t do shit, just stare at her.

_What a sick bitch, _he thought to himself, his hands tearing at the paper. _What a sick, demented wench!_

“Do you realize that you’ve broken the law?” Johnny asked her and put his hand on the small of the younger man’s back as he studied the revealing photos. It was grotesque, in a way, and he felt disgusted. How low could she sink, to go to these lengths, and for what? Revenge? He couldn’t believe he’d ever been in love with her.

“And, well, I’m disappointed,” he added, spat, and she winced.

“Is that all you have to say to me?”

“Is that all _you _have to say for yourself?” he retaliated, meeting her question with another question.

“You refused to answer me,” she said, her expression hovering between anger, grief and confusion. “And I learn you have been cheating on me with that… that…” She stopped herself before completing the sentence, but she’d been too late. They already knew what she’d wanted to say about the singer, ‘monster, ‘freak’ or something along those lines. Johnny now looked downright grim, evil almost, and he skewered her with an unflinching look, a look that said ‘You’ve gone too fucking far’, and indeed, belittling and threatening him was one thing, but Brian? That was something else. He wouldn’t allow it.

“It’s none of your damn business, Vanessa,” he said, his voice dripping with barely suppressed rage. “We’re getting a divorce, remember?”

“You don’t understand-”

“No!” he yelled, making both her and Brian flinch. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand – the one who’s been _breaking_the law.” His eyes were wild, his nostrils flaring. “How will _this _look to Lily when she’s older, huh? You’ve been acting like a stalker, a criminal, and just imagine what the judge would’ve had to say about it?”

Tears were streaming down her blotched face as she whispered, “I had no choice. You pushed me.”

“I did no such thing-”

“You didn’t answer! For months!”

“That doesn’t excuse anything,” he snapped at her, and she wailed. “You’re not above the law, and-”

“Look, Johnny! L-look.” She suddenly pulled up her long blue dress, revealing her slender thighs, her white lace panties and, of course, her bare abdomen. The sight that met his eyes nearly knocked him off his feet. She was pregnant. The baby bump wasn’t big, but it was there, the rest of her as skinny as always. The woman was undeniably pregnant. He felt like someone had stuffed his mouth with cotton, his tongue suddenly so thick he was momentarily unable to form words.

“… Is it,” he whispered, his eyes huge, scared as he tried to process this.

“It’s yours.” She smiled. “It’s yours, Johnny.”

That shut him up completely. Brian, who was standing next to the actor, felt himself shrinking at the confession, panic rising inside his chest.

_No, _he thought to himself, helpless to do anything but watch as his world started falling apart. _No, she can’t be. _He was blinking rapidly, his eyes burning with wetness. _She can’t. She can’t… _

Johnny sank to his knees on the floor, his face buried in his hands.

“Johnny,” she whispered and sat down next to him, hand on his arm. “Johnny, are you alright?”

Silence ensued, horrible silence.

“… Johnny?”

“Out,” he whispered weakly. “Do you hear me, Vanessa? Get out.”

“But-”

“Out! I need to fucking think, alright?”

She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, her eyes filling with fresh tears. The private investigator offered her a friendly smile, putting his hand on her arm, and said, “We better get going, Mrs. Depp,” well aware that they had overstayed their welcome. If Brian wanted to, he could call the cops on them. They had no business being inside his house, intruding on his privacy.

“Come on, then.”

Stunned, she staggered to her feet. This clearly wasn’t how she’d envisioned Johnny’s response to her great declaration. She’d most likely hoped it’d be a quick fix, that all would be forgiven and that they could just move on with their marital life, no problems, no trust issues, just a happy-sucky-fucky-ending.

“I’m sorry about this mess, Mr. Depp,” the private detective said and walked toward the doorway. The brunet said nothing. He still sat there with his face in his hands, trying to just breathe. 

On her way out, the blonde, petite woman told Johnny, “Call me,” her eyes pleading. Johnny just grumbled in response, his head spinning with all the bluntly delivered news. In his mind, it was impossible. They’d slept together a couple of times in September, sure, but that wasn’t what made it so unbelievable. With the first pregnancy, they’d been in and out of the doctor’s office. There’d been shots, calendars that said when to fuck, and yeah, a ton of rules to abide by. But now, with the worst timing imaginable, it had just happened? How magic the irony of his existence was. He felt like crying, felt like attacking the walls with his fists and just pour all his aggression into something. But more than anything else, he wanted to tell her to get rid of it, and he felt ashamed, so very ashamed. He hated her though, and what kind of home environment could they offer a baby?

… And should she keep it, he’d lose custody of both his kiddies. That’d ruin his new relationship. He’d lose everything, that was the reality he was now facing, and he’d never felt more depressed all his life. It was hell.

Brian followed his two uninvited guests outside. With one hand on the door knob, about to leave, Vanessa gave the shock rocker the meanest look she could muster and informed him that, “He will do what’s right.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“Johnny’s a sensible man. Mark my words, Mr. Manson. I know you’ve got him under a spell, but he’ll come to his senses and go back home, where he belongs.”

_Oh, really, witchcraft? That’s a first. _

“Yeah, right,” he said, eyes ablaze. “Now, get out of my house, will you?”

“… Lily-Rose is dependent upon her father,” she continued, ignoring him. “Think of her, just a child surrounded by selfish adults. This might ruin her life – might ruin their relationship – and for what reason?” Her words were spaced out and serrated like a saw, and he knew she was out for blood, his blood. He wasn’t about to lose his cool with her though. No, he needed to keep his wits about him, at least for now.

“People fall out of love all the time, Vanessa.”

“_For what_?” she repeated slowly, eyes burning. “Just so the two of you can fulfill whatever sick, perverted fantasies you have about one another?”

_Oh, homophobic, are we? _

“Okay, you need to leave my property right now. Don’t think I won’t call the cops on the sicko who took pics of me having sex with my boyfriend.”

“Perhaps they will show him how wrong it is. How ugly it is.”

“Hmm, well, _bye_.”

She gave him a quick, tight-lipped smile and slammed the door shut behind her.

_Jeez, what a cunt. _

_… A pregnant one. Very pregnant. _

For a minute, he stood there watching the contorted outline of the odd pair through the thick glass of the door, watching them as they left. His mind was mess, he felt tired, and somewhere in the back of his mind, a strange emotion – a kind of fear – started gnawing at him. Would Johnny really leave his pregnant wife for him? And how hadn’t he noticed the unfamiliar car parked in his driveway? Not that it mattered. They’d already left, hopefully forever, but he was smart enough to know that things wouldn’t go that smoothly, not when two kids were involved.

_I hate that fucking cunt, _he thought to himself, once again feeling close to tears. But he couldn’t cry, not when Johnny’s life was collapsing in on itself. Oh, right. Johnny. Johnny who was sitting on the floor all alone. Brian hurried down the hallway and back into the living room. There he found Johnny curled up on the floor, arms around his legs. His face was strangely red, a little bit puffy around the eyes and nose, but there weren’t any tears, not yet. The little self-restraint he had left was hanging on a piece of threat though. He’d reached his limits and was very aware of it. Any sane man in his position would’ve felt the same, and there was something awful, he thought, about unwanted pregnancies, something life-shatteringly bad.

“Johnny-”

“Another kiddie,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. A single tear streaked down his cheek and down his neck, his eyelids thickening, reddening. “How… Jesus, how do I even know if it’s mine?” His eyes blinked open again, taking in the sight of his lover’s face. It broke his heart, seeing him so worried, so sad.

“We had sex like… two… maybe three times.” He swallowed thickly and added, “In August.”

“Paternity can be tested.”

“… Yeah, no. I know it’s mine. She wouldn’t have lied.”

_Oh, she wouldn’t lie? She’d just photograph me performing oral sex? Yeah, she’s a class act alright._

_… Fuck this shit. _

“This doesn’t have to change anything,” Brian heard himself say. It was a hopelessly selfish thing to say, wasn’t it? He just didn’t want to lose Johnny – his Johnny – who made him so happy. Who made him feel things he hadn’t felt in years. Who made him pancakes for breakfast every morning and kissed him on the nose when he was in a mood. Who watched him paint. Who was _there _when no one else was. No, he couldn’t afford to lose him. Just couldn’t.

“Bullshit.”

“Yeah, I… I know.”

Johnny sat up on the rug, remembering the day Brian had punched him and he’d been bleeding all over that very same rug, but only because Johnny had wanted him to. He’d felt guilty, so being punished had felt good, cleansing, and that was probably really messed up and masochistic, but he couldn’t help it. His life had been a rollercoaster for months, his marriage deteriorating as he’d fallen in love with the rockstar. He didn’t understand anything anymore. Everything had fallen into place – his relationship with Brian and his divorce – and now everything was falling apart again. He stroked the rough fabric of the Persian rug with his fingers, wondering why this had to happen to him. And no one could beat it better. No one could kiss it better either. It was just… chaotic.

“I’ll contact my lawyer in the morning,” he told the singer. “It’s not like I can force myself to be with her just because she’s… expecting.”

“Yeah,” Brian agreed. Then he sat down next to Johnny on the rug.

“I can’t believe that… that fucking weird, little old guy’s been watching us.”

The actor’s stiff expression broke into a smile, one that was genuine but sad all the same, and he chuckled a little, chuckled because it was pretty bizarre.

“Quite strange, yes. I hope he found it revolting.”

Brian, still taken aback, just shook his head. He wasn’t easily spooked, but this? This was something else, and to be fair, he hadn’t expected that anyone would be interested in taking such pictures of him. Johnny, a famously handsome man, was probably used to this kind of attention, a sad thought, really, and the thing that had shaken him up the most was the pregnancy.

“Let’s go to bed,” the frontman suggested. “We can deal with this bullshit in the morning.”

“Alright, sweetheart.”

For the first time since Johnny had first arrived at Brian’s house, they didn’t fuck before falling asleep. Well, before the singer fell asleep. The sandman forgot all about Johnny, probably because he was so busy being troubled by what Vanessa had done. By the state she was in. Psychotic, almost. Inside his head, he saw Lily and the baby, perhaps a little boy? They were playing in the garden in France, running around on stubby legs. Vanessa was there, talking and singing to them in her native tongue. Did Johnny belong in this cozy fantasy? He had no idea, but as he stared sightlessly into the darkness of their bedroom, listening to Brian’s soft snores, he knew that their relationship belonged nowhere in the real world. It was a fantasy. With Vanessa, the world would be on his side. He would get to see his children every day – would get to dry their tears, play with them and guard them. With Brian, it would be them versus the world, and he wouldn’t get to see his children. Maybe once every two or three months. How fucking sad was that?

“… I love you, Brian,” he whispered into the night, his hand finding Brian’s under the duvet. All he got in return was a snore, which, in spite of all the pain, made him smile. He climbed out of bed not twenty minutes later, sat down in the study and started going through that photo album again. If all else was a pit of fiery doom, at least he could laugh at Brian’s frizzy mullet and orange complexion, not to mention that ridiculous suit he’d been wearing. And when he eventually stumbled across those photos from the early 90s, the ones where Brian had long hair and thick, expressive eyebrows, he felt a faint spark of recognition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two chapters left of part 2 of the series. I will start posting part 3 in January :) It needs some editing. 
> 
> And yeah, I've really made Vanessa the antagonist of the story... I'm sure she's actually a wonderful woman :') I just needed a bad guy. Anyways, hope you enjoyed it :) The next chapter will focus more on Twigs and Pogo.


	11. What Friends Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sick. I suffer from pretty severe insomnia at times and it's been bad lately, but I feel much better today, so I think I'll get to finish posting this thing before Christmas :) Well, part 2 anyways. I'll try to post the first chapter of part 3 in January. I just need to do some editing and it's done. 
> 
> Anyways, enjoy :) Comments are appreciated <3

December 3, 2001

Los Angeles, California

“So,” Pogo said, yawning, “she dumped your sorry ass for good?”

Jeordie shrugged and said, “So it would seem,” before taking a swig of his now lukewarm beer. They were sitting on a mattress in the bedroom of his new house, the walls bare and the tall windows stripped of curtains and blinds, making them appear gloomy. Without a girlfriend, they’d stay that way for a long time; he just wasn’t good at interior design and didn’t care either. It was a nice house though, but like all things in LA, it was grossly overpriced. Didn’t even come with furniture. He wished it had at least come with a bed, but no, of course it hadn’t. And thanks to his psycho ex-girlfriend, he no longer owned a bed. She’d stolen everything. 

“And you’re not getting any of your stuff back?”

“Why would I want it back?” he muttered, voice low, cold. “She’s got her new boyfriend’s cum all over it, I bet.”

“You mean her new _client_, of course.” He clicked his tongue in a touché kind of way, offering Jeordie a look that could have been mistaken for sympathetic. In reality, it was his ‘I’m smarter than you’ look, and yeah, he was perhaps smarter when it came to people, having deemed Allie a bad seed from the start. Where Jeordie had seen a kind girl, Pogo had seen a junkie.

“Client?”

Pogo gave a self-satisfied smirk that made the other man want to kick him in the shin.

“I’ve been around the block once or twice, Twigs, and I’m yet to have met a methhead of the female variety who isn’t, you know, a prostitute.”

The bassist shot him a venomous look, gritting his teeth.

“Shut up.”

“What, was I right about him being her client?” 

“No,” he immediately snapped at him, frustration bubbling at his face. In all honesty, Jeordie wasn’t a grouch, not at all, but this betrayal had just hit a nerve. He’d seen himself getting married to the girl, and now this, cheating and stealing his stuff, probably just to sell it to get high, and damn it, Pogo was right. He gave up on defending her non-existing honor, saying, “Whatever you’d like to call the swine. Looked like a retarded version of Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

“They sure do like the big and brawly ones.”

“Yeah.” Jeordie looked crestfallen for a moment there. “I hate that bitch. Such a slut.”

“Good.” Pogo smiled victoriously, reaching for the bottle of vodka stood on the floor next to the mattress. As it were, he’d been running around town with Jeordie all day long, trying to get him settled in. He hadn’t been this kind to anyone in ages, which left him feeling all saintly. So, he had to make up for it by being extra asshol-y and condescending, and boy, Jeordie knew he was in for a treat. But he wasn’t in the mood. He was just… sad.

“Still, I loved her.”

“Best to leave the prostitutes and escorts to what they’re good at, which isn’t relationships. She was just scamming you.”

Jeordie glared at him. “You’d know.”

“Yes!” Pogo exclaimed, grinning manically. “I’d know. But you wouldn’t know, would you? ‘Cause you’re a little whore yourself, opening your mouth wide for Mazz whenever he winks at you.” Pogo winked at him three times, elbowing him in the side before whispering, “Pathetic,” into his ear. “Pa-thet-ic.”

The bassist gave him a hefty shove, which was enough to make him fall over on the mattress.

“Is that how you repay me, hmm?” Pogo wanted to know. “I’d rather get a nice, juicy blowjob-”

“Would you give it a rest, you fucking asshole.”

“Of course.” Pogo pulled himself into a sitting position again, his lips still twisted into a too wide and too toothy smile. “If you admit you’ve got the hots for Manson.”

Jeordie sighed, then he smirked. “I think _you_’ve got the hots for me. You can’t talk to me without whining about the fact that Manson’s getting the blowjobs and not you.”

“Oh, oh, oh,” the mad clown sang, drinking some more vodka. “Believe me, had I been a little queen you would’ve known.”

“Hmm?”

The madman wrapped his lips around the bottle again, enjoying the burn of the alcohol.

“Aren’t all my lady friends just that?” he asked, nestling the bottle between his legs. When Jeordie just shot him a confused look, he sighed wearily and said, “Ladies. They’re ladies,” for clarification. 

“Maybe all your hookers are actually transvestites,” Jeordie suggested, an almost innocent smile curving his lips.

Pogo started laughing at that. “A hole’s a hole,” he said before standing up, stretching his legs and yawning. He hadn’t gotten much sleep that night. Jeordie had for one reason or the other gone to see his lover – Allison, was it? No, Allie – and he’d been rejected. He’d been very rejected, actually, and her new boyfriend, some bloke with the arms of Hercules, had pulled him by the hair into the pool, soaked him, and then thrown him over the hedge. He’d come howling around 5 a.m., dead on his feet and with leaves sticking out of his dreadlocks. Then, as soon as he’d sobered up, they’d found a him a house. Pogo’s friend was renting it out, so they’d gotten the key at once and had been doing some urban camping on the floor for a few hours. With alcohol, of course. No mourning losses without alcohol.

“What about Manson?”

“Hmm?” Jeordie frowned. “Would you stop-”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Twigs. Not everything’s about you!” he all but yelled, his fingers curled around the neck of the bottle. “No, what I meant was, of course, that he’ll be lonely sitting in that mansion all by himself. I thought you wanted to move in for good!”

“No-o.”

“No?”

Jeordie smiled. “I’d be in the way. He’s got himself a bo… um, a lover.”

“Aw, poor Twigs,” the baldheaded man said, pouting. “All the people you like to fuck are busy fucking someone else. That must be so lonely.” He fixed him with a mock pitying look, wiping a non-existent tear from his eye, and like always, he was over exaggerating his every goddamn movement. Why was anyone’s guess. “Gosh.”

Jeordie ignored him completely and said, “I thought we might head over there to collect some of my stuff, actually. I’ll start having epileptic seizures if I just sit here and stare at this white fucking wall for too long. No, I need my TV, my speakers, my clothes…”

“… With or without cum stains?”

“Just my own,” he chirped happily. Then, as he remembered the guy with the huge arms who had thrown him out of his own goddamn house, his face fell like a failed soufflé.

“So you like to get your own cum all over you?” Pogo asked, raising one brow. Before Jeordie could answer, he grinned again and said, “That might be the gayest thing I’ve heard all day, and let me tell you, I’ve been listening to Queen all week -”

“Come on,” the bassist said, completely ignoring the comment. “I want my speakers.”

“Twigs,” Pogo said, holding up the bottle. “I can’t drive.”

The bassist sighed and said, “I’ll just call Danny – Mazz’s guy.”

“… He’s got _another _toy boy-”

Pogo didn’t get to finish that sentence. Jeordie hurled his beer bottle at him, hitting him in the shoulder. The bottle exploded, sending shards of glass and golden liquid flying everywhere. By tomorrow, it would stink up the apartment.

“… You’re bonkers!”

“Yeah, you’ve got a way of driving us all mad,” the skinnier man said, huffing a little. Sure, he’d hit him, but he’d gotten beer and pieces of broken glass all over his only mattress. That sucked. He rolled his eyes at no one in particular and fished out his phone. When he glanced up from the screen, he saw that Pogo was glaring him. Well, he wasn’t really glaring, he was just being his dramatic, lunatic self, completely bereft of any self-control or self-knowledge. But then again, that was the Pogo they all loved.

“Alright,” Jeordie sighed. “I’m calling Danny now.”

* * *

From the moment they exited the Mercedes, they felt as though something was amiss. The windows were dark and the driveway was devoid of the red 1955 Chrysler, which had become a standard part of the façade as much as the empty flower beds. Jeordie started wondering whether the pair had gone out for dinner – or maybe they’d gone to the cinema? That wasn’t out of the ordinary, and so he ignored the bad omens.

“… Who’s the new girlfriend?” Pogo asked as they walked up the stairs to the porch. “It isn’t Rose again, is it? I never liked that birdie bird. She’s living in cloud cuckoo land – and before you say it, yes, I would know!”

The bassist snorted. “Would you stop? Your behavior is a gimmick, Pogo, and don’t think I don’t know it.”

“Who’s the lucky lady?” he asked, ignoring the statement. “Oh, tell me! I’m dying of curiosity here!”

Jeordie came to a halt before the door, reluctant to answer. Brian was a private person, after all, and Jeordie wanted to respect his privacy. But it wasn’t really any different from when he’d started going out with Rose, and that had been on everyone’s lips for as long as they’d been an item. Besides, chances were that they’d pull into the driveway any second now, so why not spill the beans before things got really awkward? Brian hated any scenario that would make him blush, so wasn’t it reasonable to just… well, to just tell Pogo all about it?

“Um,” Jeordie said, laughing a little. “This is going to, um, well… shock you.”

“Oh, I think I know!” Pogo exclaimed, now clapping his hands. “It’s clearly-”

“No,” Jeordie groaned. “It’s not me.”

“I wasn’t going to say _you_!” Pogo said, snorting. “Manson has standards.”

Jeordie rolled his eyes and said, “It’s Johnny Depp,” with such simplicity it sounded like he was talking about having meatballs and spaghetti for dinner. The baldheaded man’s eyebrows bumped together. For once, he said nothing, he just stared at Jeordie with an unimpressed look on his face. He hadn’t believed a word of it, and who in their right mind would have? Not that Pogo was exactly in his right mind, but really, he wasn’t _that _much of a lunatic either, no, just peculiar. In the end, he laughed and said, “And I’m married to Queen Elizabeth II. She likes it when I bring out the big horsewhip.” Jeordie didn’t laugh, of course.

“I’m for real, man,” he insisted. “I’ve been living with them for the last few weeks.”

“Mm-hmm.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “If you say so, Twigs. Tell me, what drugs have you been taking? I think I want some.”

“I mean it! Just, well, alright, just consider how _happy _Mazz has been lately. He hasn’t cussed anyone out!”

Pogo’s jaw tightened as he considered this. Then, in the split second it took him to understand that ‘Fucking hell, Twigs’ right!’, his eyes grew wider than they’d ever been, and Jeordie started giggling, realizing he’d just won an argument, if one could call it that. And not only had he won, he’d also rendered the oftentimes voluble man speechless, which was a rare feat for someone as, well, spacey and/or absent-minded as him. But Pogo wasn’t saying shit, no, he just stared at the door, probably wondering how he’d missed out on Brian’s obvious euphoria, which wasn’t all that strange considering he was sticking it to Johnny fucking Depp. That asshole had to be tighter than a hug from his great aunt Betsy. 

Jeordie gave him a long look, impatient.

“Well?” 

“… Oh, sweet Jesus Daddy,” the madman muttered under his breath, his brows still drawn together like he couldn’t believe it. “I was so fucking wrong all along.” His eyes shot up, dark and almost angry. “_I _was _wrong_! No-no-fucking-no, that just isn’t… I always suspected _you _were gay – not Manson, of all people.” Before the bassist could protest, and he certainly looked like he wanted to protest, he added, “Oh, like you wouldn’t have thought that about a grown man wearing a pink dress!”

Jeordie almost felt offended.

“Well, Mazz – Mazz had boobs!”

Pogo gave him a questioning look and asked, “What does that have to do with any of this?”

“That’s way more gay than me wearing a dress!”

“No.”

“Yes!” 

The keyboardist rolled his eyes.

“First of all, that doesn’t make him gay, it just makes him a tranny. Second…” He sighed, shaking his head in a resigned manner. “Second of all, I was _wrong_.” He let out a groan, covering his face with his hands as if horribly embarrassed. The whole thing was overly theatrical to the point of being ridiculous, but then again, it was Pogo, and say what you will about the man, but he was usually an excellent judge of character, probably because he knew people from all walks of life.

“So?”

“I was wrong, Twigs! I hate being wrong! Hate it.”

Jeordie blinked, saying, “Well…”

“Wrong!” Pogo repeated, looking about as miserable as his namesake when his sorry ass was hauled off to prison.

“He isn’t gay though. He’s just, well…” The bassist shrugged, smiling a little. “Gay for Johnny, I guess.”

The keyboardist chewed on his lower lip, thinking so hard his skull nearly split open. In a low voice, he said, “You know, I don’t blame Johnny for feeling adventurous – it’s Marilyn Manson, after all – but Manson?” He paused for thought, meaning he wanted Jeordie to do something he didn’t often do: THINK. When he didn’t appear to be catching on, he sighed and continued: “Sounds a little bit too suburban for his taste. I mean, Johnny… isn’t he a little bit too ‘I’m thirteen years old and I like to fantasize about Edward Scissorhands fingering me in the butt’ for Manson?” 

Well, that certainly caught his attention. Jeordie gave him a long, hard look before saying, “You don’t need just one shrink, Pogo. You need a whole team of ‘em.” He shook his head, resigned, and added, “Or maybe a neurosurgeon,” as an afterthought, not quite able to get rid of the mental images.

“What’s that?” the bald man asked, putting his hand behind his ear. “I think I hear a tiny crossdressing mosquito saying something about me not being politically correct?”

“… Blow me.”

“No-no.” Pogo grinned. “Blow _me_.”

Jeordie reached for his key - and Pogo thought it was amusing how Brian had given the idiot a key of his own – and proceeded to unlock the door. They entered the house and immediately thought it was quiet, too quiet in that ‘low-budget horror movie’ kind of way. Not even Lily White was there to greet them, which was odd. The cat wasn’t very fond of being alone and would wait for Brian in the hallway, usually curled up on the window sill. When Jeordie flicked on the light switch, he nearly jumped. As it turned out, he should have trusted his gut feeling. It’d been right. The large wall-mounted mirror had been smashed to pieces, and as a result, broken glass was strewn about on the tiled floor. There was also the occasional drop of something red, brown almost, and no, it wasn’t paint.

“… Did someone break in?” Pogo asked, his voice too low, too restrained.

“Then the door or window would’ve been broken,” Jeordie reasoned, speaking in a hushed voice that gave him away. He had reason to worry, after all, and his immediate thought was that Johnny had gone berserk again. Hildesheim trickled back into focus, and he remembered the purple bruises, tears and the frightened look in his eyes that had haunted him for weeks. Or maybe it was Brian? He had a temper, but he wasn’t a maniac who attacked mirrors either. No, this wasn’t normal – this wasn’t normal at all. Whenever Brian was in a mood, he’d just sulk. Worst case scenario, he’d yell. But Johnny? He’d already seen what the actor was capable of, and taking the incident back in Hildesheim into consideration, this wasn’t good.

He panicked.

“Mazz!” he called out, voice amplified by the enclosed room. “Ma-azz!”

A hand wrapped around his arm, yanking him to a halt.

“Hey,” Pogo hissed. “You better keep it down. We don’t know who’s here.”

Jeordie suddenly remembered that Johnny’s Chrysler hadn’t been parked outside the house. He couldn’t be the perpetrator. Fear trickled like ice water through his veins; air stalled in his lungs. Pogo was watching him, searching his eyes for something, and only when he let go of him did the bassist realize the hand had belonged to him. He was scared stiff. Didn’t know what to do. 

“Let’s search the place,” Pogo eventually said, taking charge. “See if we can find Mazz.”

“We shouldn’t call… crap, no, we can’t… no cops?”

“Are you stupid? He’s bound to have something illegal in here. No cops – not unless he’s half dead or-”

The black-haired man winced. Pogo, Seeing the look on his friend’s face, cut himself short, deciding that a calm Jeordie was better than a hysterical Jeordie, and Jeordie was on the verge of hysteria, so… he opted to bite his tongue, for once.

“F-fine…”

Jeordie then clasped his hand in his. Pogo gave a sound of protest, but he didn’t yank his hand back, telling himself Jeordie was like a kid who needed comfort, and just started walking, pushing the door open. They went to the kitchen first. It was dark, but before they could locate the light switch, they again heard the crunching of glass under their combat boots. Jeordie found the switch. A small gasp immediately escaped him, and then, under the harsh lights, both men stood there gawking at the scene before them, both feeling, well, scared shitless. All the cupboard doors had been ripped from their hinges, the curtains had been yanked off the rods and the chairs were all over the place, some reduced to matchwood. Every single glass, plate and breakable item had been shattered to pieces, pulverized almost. Not once square millimeter had been left untouched.

“… Twigs,” the keyboardist said, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. “This… this isn’t the work of a burglar. I think-”

“Look at the wall,” Jeordie said, squeezing his hand. “Oh, God. L-look at that.”

Pogo’s eyes found the source of his distress. He’d have to be blind not to. Someone, namely the king of goth himself, had scribbled down poetry all over the walls, the kind of poetry that should stay concealed within the pages of a diary. The sentences repeated most often was, ‘I am among no one’ and ‘Fuck you’. When Jeordie saw the word ‘Death’, his skin started prickling. And unsurprisingly, on the kitchen table sat an empty bottle of absinthe, the moldy cherry on top of this catastrophe. There were empty bottles everywhere, actually. Some had been broken, and one of them had blood all over it, like it’d been used to stab someone. Half-dried puddles of absinthe and blood stained the floor, telling a rather disturbing tale about the rather disturbing events that had transpired earlier that day.

“… He’s gone mad,” Pogo stated, voice eerily calm. On the inside, however, he was freaking out. Even he hadn’t seen a scene as grim before, almost like something out of a very weird European movie about someone going, like the cupboard doors, off the hinges. “He’s gone bejesus.”

“We’ve got to find him,” Jeordie said, voice barely above a whisper. “He’s hurt – look at all the blood, man.”

“Thanks for pointing that out for me, Twigs,” the other man grumbled. “I’m color blind, after all.”

The younger man paid him no heed, too upset to really listen. They quickly hurried up the stairs, and peering into the darkened hallway, they saw a slit of light coming from the slightly ajar door. Jeordie called out for the singer, raising his voice in spite of Pogo’s warnings, but no response came. When they walked inside, they saw that he had vacated the room. Undecipherable words had been written on the antique wallpaper, something that made Jeordie’s heart beat even faster. Brian had always been protective of his antiquities. Some treasured books, first editions, had also been ripped asunder, the pages littering the floor, and of course, more bottles were strewn around the room, and another bottle, tipped over on the desk, was dripping green on the floor. He’d been trying to drink himself into a stupor, it seemed, and to their combined horror, there were specks of blood on the desk.

“… What’s that?” Pogo asked, frowning down at something. In addition to the blood, there was also a pink letter on the desk. Brian had bled on the paper, and it was torn in several places, almost as if he’d crumpled it up before reading it again. Jeordie picked it up and started skimming through it. He bit down on his lower lip, his eyes glassy, and his voice came out like a hoarse whisper. “I-I know what’s wrong.”

Pogo lifted a brow and said, “Well, what?”

He lifted his tear-filled gaze from the letter, looking lost, reminding him of a child. 

“… Johnny’s… I-I…”

“Oh, no-no-no, no crying, Twigs,” he said in an alarmed voice, not at all prepared to deal with grown men crying their eyes out, letting out snot and mucus and other icky, yucky bodily fluids he didn’t want on his person. Having just entered a house that looked as though a bunch of fifteen-year-old anarchists had occupied it was stressful enough, thank you very much! Without giving the long-haired man the chance to explain, he snatched the piece of paper out of his hand and started going through the letter himself. It didn’t take him long to understand why Jeordie had been upset by it. If anything, the letter was brutal. He hadn’t really met Johnny, hadn’t gotten a first impression of him yet, but after reaching the third paragraph of his letter, he felt like twisting his hands around his neck until his head came off like a bottle-top.

_Brian,_

_I’m writing to you from France. _

_I’m sorry you had to wake up to an empty bed, and I’m sorry you reached voicemail. I’m sorry, love. My guilt is an ocean for me to drown in, I can promise you that. But as it is, Vanessa has me by the balls. You too, by the way, though I suspect you aren’t as cowardly as I am. The situation is bleak, and those photos – illegal or not – could be a terrible blow to our careers. Yes, I am being a pussy, I’m aware, and I know you placed your trust and your faith in me, and you are rewarded only with this silly letter. With this meaningless apology. I couldn’t even say it to your face. And like I said, my guilt is an ocean for me to drown in. It’s a pain like no other pain I’ve felt before, but I see no other way._

_Please, let me explain:_

_You have to understand this: I’ve never felt more like myself than in your company. Or maybe I just prefer the version of me that comes out only in your presence. My life, however, doesn’t always belong to me, and it’s dehumanizing. You know what I’m talking about, Marilyn. We’re public domain. Novelty boys. Objects to be leered and prodded at. And at one point or the other, I just stopped caring about the real person behind all the glamour. Drugs, alcohol and other equally hedonistic behaviors just swallowed him up completely. But you reached into my soul and dragged him out of the darkness, and it doesn’t matter whether were friends or lovers, or brothers, even. No. We’re still one. You do that to me; you make me feel alive again, like a real human being. _

_And you’re right, I wouldn’t be saying that unless I was breaking up with you. Not that I ever had the guts to ask you to be mine, because I am a coward. I’m a bloody coward. I’ll fucking tattoo it on my forehead. That’s how much I hate myself right now. I’m too much of a coward to love you the way you deserve to be loved._

_All my life, I’ve been pretending – performing – so that I can earn their love. Who are they? Well, the world, my family, my wife and my child. In short, everyone but you. Your love came without a book of stupid rules. You didn’t want this face; you didn’t want the money; you didn’t want a perfect love. We were friends in the beginning, only we weren’t really friends. Behind all that stuff was something so real and innocent and fucking beautiful, I found I could no longer pretend. It was passion, it was unconditional love, it was perfection. My heart just went bonkers. _

_And stop being so insecure, love. You’re a beautiful man. Beautiful. Don’t doubt the sincerity of my words, Marilyn! I might be a coward, but I don’t lie. I’m no good at it, after all. _

_I fell for you. _

_You._

_And I wouldn’t have fallen for just anyone. I wouldn’t have gone mad for just anyone. And yeah, I did go fucking mad. I’m sorry about that. Sorry I was violent that day. It was pathetic. After I lost my fucking mind in that dressing room, however, I started asking myself what it is to be alive. I thought I knew. It was about doing what I’m supposed to be doing, making films and raising my little girl, never once complaining about my failing marriage or depression. Then you turned it upside down. When I saw you that night at the gala, I knew I was losing this battle. By the time we were friends, I had already lost. And honestly, Brian, my dearest, most beautiful lover, I have lost for good. You have my heart. Don’t ever give it back, ‘cause I can promise you this: It will neverbelong to Vanessa again. _

_Vanessa, like I said before, has me by the balls. If I go back to you, she’ll leak those photos. If I go back to you, she’ll take the kids away. Women have all the power where such things are concerned, you know? She can say I slapped her around a bit and I’ll have to pay her half my fortune, let her drive around in my Chrysler and raise our kids in my house, but I’ll still never get to see them._

_I’ve never cried this much before. Feels like hell. And knowing that you’re feeling like hell because of me, well, that makes me feel like a fucking monster. _

_I told Vanessa that you’ll be my friend no matter what. Well, that is if you want to be my friend, Brian. I don’t blame you if you choose to cut all ties, even if it’d kill me. I deserve that, too. _

_In another life, it would be you and me, but in this life? I couldn’t rob those innocent babies of their father. Besides, we wouldn’t have succeeded. This world is unforgiving. Your career isn’t in a good place right now, even if you don’t like to admit it. After Columbine, it’s been rather fragile. The album didn’t do as well as its predecessors, and why? Bad publicity. You’re already a self-confessed Satanist (I still find this to be incredibly childish), you’re more androgynous than Bowie and you criticize people with the authority to take you down. If you turn out to be gay on top of that, then what? Someone’s gonna shoot you dead, Marilyn. And alright, I can sense that you’re rolling your eyes right now, but I am worried. You’ve got to look out for yourself. I wish I could be there to do that for you, to stand by your side and love you, but I’ve got no choice._

_I love you. I’ve loved you since that night at the beach house. _

_Loving someone means doing what’s best for them no matter what. Same goes for my kiddies. I’m trying to do what’s best for all of us, but the cards I’ve been dealt are pretty lousy. Alright, I’m not gonna pretend that I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I’m only doing this because I can’t bloody fight for what I want. That makes me a bad person. An asshole. And yeah, someone not worthy of your time._

_Brian, do not hesitate to move on from this fiasco. Meet a girl, settle down, be well. You’ll hear from me soon enough, I can promise you that, but for right now, we need to spend some time apart. _

_Yours lovingly,_

_Johnny_

“Who the fuck is Vanessa?” Pogo demanded to know, his voice trembling with rage. He himself was an asshole, sure, but he still couldn’t stand watching other assholes mistreating his friends. This was unacceptable on every level. His eyes shot up from the paper, nearly boring holes through Jeordie’s skull as he asked, “What the fuck is going on here?”

Jeordie ran his hand through his messy dreadlocks and muttered, “Johnny’s wife,” sounding vaguely embarrassed. The fact that the woman in question – the very pregnant woman in question – had marched inside the mansion last week, shouting at him to locate her husband, had slipped his mind completely. He’d taken some pills to relax, to forget about his miserable love life, and alright, they’d worked too well.

“His wife?” the bald man repeated, his voice raised. “His fucking wife?”

“Yeah, well.” He looked down at his feet. “He said he was divorcing her. I believed him. Why shouldn’t I? The woman wasn’t sane. No, she came here and screamed like I was to blame for her life going to hell! What a scarecrow.”

“You met her?”

Jeordie nodded. “Mm. She came here last week. Wasn’t happy. And she’s pregnant – with Johnny.” 

Pogo sighed, wondering why they thought _he _was the crazy one, and said, “We’ve got to find Manson.”

“Maybe he’s in his bedroom?” the bassist suggested.

“Fuck, why didn’t we think of that before?”

“Let’s go.” 

They dashed up the stairs and all but fell in through the door, which had been left unlocked. The room was in total darkness except a ray of light that flooded out from the bathroom door, illuminating only an empty corner and specks of dust. The light switch wasn’t working, of course it wasn’t, and Jeordie, who was terrified of what he’d find in the singer’s bed, hesitated. What if he was dead? He’d been drinking heavily, and fuck, what if he’d broken his oath? Jeordie had kept a ‘secret’ stash of pills under his bed, and if combined with absinthe and God knows what else, it was a lethal cocktail for sure.

“Twigs?” Pogo said, unsure.

“… Mazz?” he called out, and there was a slight tremor in his voice. The only response he got was a low meow. Lily White jumped down from her stack of newspapers and rubbed herself against his calf, happy to see her favorite playmate again.

“For crying out loud, Twigs,” Pogo said, pushing him inside the bedroom. Lily meowed and darted down the stairs, the room feeling to crowded for her liking.

“… Manson, where are you?”

“Mazz?”

Pogo walked down the red carpet leading to the bed, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness. He turned on the lamp that stood on the night table and nearly jumped back at the sight that met his eyes. Brian wasn’t in bed, oh no, but he’d clearly been there. The sheets were bloodstained. There was a puddle of greenish vomit on the floor next to the bed. He’d stepped in it. His face twisted into an odd grimace, and Jeordie, who still waited by the door, could only stare.

“… Manson!” Pogo screamed, voice caught between concern, anger and disgust. “Where the fuck are you, you son of a bitch?”

Just then, they heard the sound of someone retching, the sudden noise enough to startle the keyboardist, startled because he’d assumed no one was at home. Before Pogo could get a word of caution in, Jeordie made a wild, desperate dash for the bathroom. Then he froze in the doorway, completely shocked to see Brian sitting in the bathtub, naked and caked in his own vomit.

“… Mazz…”

The singer offered his friend a monotone, “Hey,” before puking again. The stuff was in his hair, on his face, on his chest and everywhere else, including his private parts. It was probably the most revolting thing Jeordie had ever seen, and he had more than one younger brother. He’d changed the dirtiest diapers imaginable, had witnessed his brothers throwing poop at one another, and alright, some former girlfriends had enjoyed the occasional golden shower. This scene did, however, surpass it all.

“Oh,” was all Pogo said when he entered the bathroom. He hadn’t seen an elephant fly, but he was still pretty much certain that he’d now seen it all.

“… Your hand,” Jeordie whispered, now standing just next to the bathtub. If the smell was sickening to the point of making you heave, the sight of Brian’s left hand was grisly enough to make you want to gauge your eyes out. Countless small cuts covered his hand, and the cuts were fresh. Blood seeped from the wounds, coloring both his hand and the bottom of the tub red. It looked like he’d attempted _lingchi_, or ‘death by a thousand cuts’, and it was graphic, too graphic. Jeordie, who’d grown up on The Exorcist and Evil Dead, wasn’t a stranger to the world of gore-filled horror movies, but _this_– it was in a different category altogether.

“D-don’t worry,” Brian said, slurring his words. “D-don’t… I’m fine. Just- just fine.”

“No, you’re not fine,” the bassist said, his voice strained. Brian just groaned, disinterested in pursuing any conversation regarding his well-being, and then, as a means of displaying his disinterest, slumped his head against the wall, closing his eyes.

“… Pogo,” Jeordie said, now nearly in tears again. “What do we do with him?”

The helplessness in his voice made the older man straighten his back, feeling as though he had to take responsibility. That wasn’t something he often did – and he wouldn’t have bothered had it been anyone else – but this was Manson, after all. And Jeordie.

“Do you know if there’s a first aid kid somewhere in the house?”

Jeordie nodded and walked toward the door. Then he came to a halt, turning around and looking at his best friend with wetness shining in his eyes. He thought Hildesheim had been awful, but this? It was hellish. He’d inflicted these injuries to himself. What could be worse than that?

“I-I hate this,” he whispered to himself, forlorn. Pogo felt… weirdly sympathetic.

“I know, man.”

“… It’s just, it’s Mazz…”

There was a moment of horrible silence broken only by a strange gurgling noise coming from the frontman, who’d resumed to puking his guts out. Seeing this, Jeordie looked even sadder. 

“Hey, Twigs? He’ll be alright.” Pogo said, offering him a reassuring smile. That was in itself a worrying sign, seeing as Pogo – their very own mad hatter – wasn’t really what one would describe as a reassuring or compassionate man. No, words such as ‘psycho’ or ‘pervert’, or maybe even ‘budding serial killer’ were more commonly used about the man. In spite of its unnerving effect, Jeordie hugely appreciated his effort. Given the circumstances, it was kind of him to at least try.

“He’s just being a self-pitying cunt,” the bald-headed man continued. “Looks like he’s thrown up all the absinthe – and he hasn’t done any drugs. The hand just… just looks worse than it is.” And yeah, his hand wasn’t a sight for sore eyes. Pogo thought it looked like he had gotten it stuck in a meat grinder, but even he had enough common sense not to say that aloud. Jeordie, in his current state, probably would’ve fainted had he said that.

“So,” the younger man said, his eyes still glued to the singer, “we definitely shouldn’t call an ambulance?”

“What, no, we definitely shouldn’t. He’d have us executed in the morning.”

Jeordie permitted himself a very thin smile. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Now, would you get that first aid kit?” Pogo asked, raising one brow. “Wouldn’t want Mr. drama queen over here to bleed to death.”

“Don’t move,” was all the younger man said before running down the stairs. Not two minutes later, he was back with the first aid kit. They showered the poor man off and tended to his wounds, all twenty-four of them. They were shallow, shallower than the ones he’d gotten onstage in the past, but soaking them in vomit probably hadn’t been the cleverest thing to do. Thirty-five minutes later, he was in bed, fast asleep and without a care in the world. Jeordie watched over him for some time after that, and Pogo, who was being the adult for once, washed the green puke from the carpet. Then he threw the carpet out the window while swearing like a drunk sailor, cursing the day that darn carpet had been woven. Even after he’d finished scrubbing it, it had smelled like something better suited for the compost bin.

When there wasn’t much left for them to do, they walked downstairs and started cleaning up the mess Brian had left in the hallway and kitchen. Jeordie got sick of playing housemaid after an hour or two and sat down in the narrow hallway, his legs tucked under him. There were several paintings there – one depicted him with a ridiculously large and crooked nose – and he enjoyed watching them, reminding him of days long gone. Happier days. The last twenty-four hours had really drained him of all energy, horrible as they’d been. He felt rather sad, actually. Never had he seen his best friend in such a broken-hearted and self-destructive state of mind, nearly drowning in his own puke while stewing in his own blood. Lower than low.

“You alright over there, Twigs?” Pogo eventually asked, having put the bucket and the mop away. The look of concern on his face was genuine, though the long-haired man couldn’t really bring himself to understand it. He let out a quiet, “Mm,” before leaning his head against the wall, staring up at Pogo with wondering eyes. The man wasn’t at all who he pretended to be, he thought. But in the end, maybe no one was?

“I… I really thought Johnny would be good for him. Didn’t expect this stupid outcome.”

“Love isn’t good for anyone, Twigs.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but then he remembered Allie and closed it again. A long silence followed, both of them thoughtful.

“Are you gonna head back home again?”

Pogo shook his head and said, “Nope. I think I better stay here. The two of you need a _real _man, with a _big _dick, to look after you,” before averting his gaze. The smile on his face was humorless, more rueful than anything else, almost as if he berated himself for the tasteless joke. “Don’t want you to have a breakdown over Manson’s wiener all by yourself.”

The lame joke made Jeordie throw his head back and laugh. It wasn’t the joke, more that he’d never really understood Pogo up until now. Well, no, he didn’t really understand him now either, but he had gained some understanding of his persona. The real man hiding beneath the inappropriate humor and perversions was someone he hadn’t seen before, and they’d known each other for years and years. Why was he so intent on hiding him? All of them had stage names, sure, and they’d act a certain way when they were on tour, but where Pogo was concerned, he’d always assumed it wasn’t an act. Pogo was just Pogo. But maybe not.

“Oh, come on. You don’t need to charm me to get into my pants, Twigs. I know that joke wasn’t funny.”

He smiled. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Then why did you laugh?”

“… Man, I didn’t get it until now, but I’ve been wrong about you too.”

The keyboardist folded his arms across his chest and rolled his eyes, muttering, “That’s ‘cause I wanted you to be wrong about me, dickhead.” 

“You’re the dickhead, dickhead.”

Pogo sighed. He was too tired to deal with this bullshit.

“Yeah, you know what? Blow me,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache coming on and contemplated taking a nap, or maybe just going to bed. While absorbed in thought, he didn’t see Jeordie moving and let out a startled yelp the moment he felt hands tugging at his pants. Looking down, he saw the bassist on his knees before him, something playful gleaming in his eyes, and he wondered if the whole world was in fact going mad and he was the only sane person left.

“What the hell do you think-”

“Oh, shush it,” the younger man said, now in the process of unzipping his fly. “You’ve been bugging me about it for _years_. You’re not chickening out now.” When Pogo cleared his throat nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing, the bassist paused and said, “What, you’re scared?” his expression unreadable, confused almost.

“No,” Pogo squeaked. “Why would I-”

Jeordie cut him short, rubbing him through the fabric of his jeans. The keyboardist let out a low moan, his hips bucking.

“And I can sense it wasn’t just a stupid joke.” The younger man grinned. “Was it now?”

Pogo’s eyes widened, his heart beating furiously behind his ribcage, and if that wasn’t ridiculous enough, his palms were sweaty. He’d never been nervous all his life – it was outrageous – and really, if he hadn’t already been in shock, now he certainly was. He was, in fact, at a loss of words, tongue-tied, and that was yet another first. It was weird as hell. Was he having a stroke or something?

“I-I don’t-”

“Shh.” Jeordie yanked down his pants and found all the evidence he needed to know that he wanted this. And before he could complain, he wrapped his lips around him and gave him the best darn blowjob of his life. The only thing that went through his mind while doing this was that maybe, just maybe Pogo hadn’t been wrong about him after all. Not that he didn’t like women, but one didn’t necessarily exclude the other. Or so he thought. But really, what did it matter? If he wanted to suck someone’s dick, he would do just that, and Pogo obviously wasn’t complaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I'm pretty mean to Manson.


	12. The Pretty Princess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas :) Like I said before, chapter one of part 3 will be posted in January. So no, this isn't the end for our boys! 
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely comments :) They've meant the world to me.

December 20, 2003

Los Angeles, California

_Home_. Well, it wasn’t really home, not yet. The mansion, built in 1927, was a time machine, but no, it wasn’t Art Deco or Streamline Moderne. It made you think of the Brothers Grimm – something out of a dark fairytale – and was inspired by the Tudor homes of England as well as the Gothic cathedrals of France. In short, it looked like the ideal home for a couple of eccentric oddballs, and they were just that. After months on the road, it felt wonderful to walk through the wrought-iron gate, and alright, it wasn’t home, but it had the potential of becoming home. He’d moved in with the girlfriend two weeks before going abroad for more than half a year so it was only natural that he was feeling that way, wasn’t it?

And, he noticed with some dismay, there were Christmas decorations everywhere. Christmas wasn’t really his, well, favorite time of the year, but he could live with it. Not that he had much of a choice, not anymore.

“Where do you want me to put all the bags, Mr. Manson?” Danny asked from the other side of the gate, dragging him out of his thoughts. He was in the middle of pulling a heavy suitcase out of the trunk of the car and had wet spots under his arms and a thin coating of sweat on his upper lip. Brian had come straight from Scandinavia and felt the heat too, the sun shining brightly, and yeah, he was happy to be home. The minus five-degree weather they’d experienced in Stockholm just wasn’t for him, though the Christmas market had been nice. He’d bought a lot of candy. 

“The hallway will be just fine, Danny.”

“Alright, Mr. M.”

_Mr. M? _He furrowed his brows in suspicion. _Sounds like something Dita’s been calling me behind my back. _

He opened the gate and walked inside the garden, stretching his legs. None of the cats were outside to greet him, he noted.

_I hope Lily White didn’t miss me too much_, he thought to himself as he came to a halt in front of the huge circular fountain. _Nah. Dita’s good with animals – isn’t she? Lily’s probably a little fatty now. _

“… Brian!” Dita shouted from the balcony. His eyes shot up from the fountain, drinking in the sight of his girlfriend. She was wearing a gorgeous torques dress that emphasized her perfect hourglass figure, and the smile on her lips was wide, genuinely happy to see him. “Don’t move. I’ll be with you in a second!” She disappeared back inside, only to walk out the main door a couple of seconds later.

“Hey there, sugar,” he said and greeted her with a smile. When she was close enough, he put his arms around her waist, pulled her in for a hug and kissed her on the lips. Both of them wore red lipstick, so they didn’t need to worry about smudges, not that it was his main concern anyways. Her lips were warm and eager. She smelled like she’d been bathing in roses, her hair was immaculate and her eyes were gleaming with joy. She was the perfect girlfriend, and okay, it was amazing coming home to someone who’d missed you so much – someone who wasn’t Lily White. A woman.

“Oh, it’s been forever,” she whispered against his lips, kissing him again and again. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

He chuckled at her proposal and said, “I find that very agreeable,” before taking her hand in his.

“We haven’t got a minute to spare, love!” 

They hurried inside and stayed in bed for the rest of the day. When Danny exited the house for the last time, having carried two suitcases and three bags into the hallway, his cheeks were a bright red color. He could only hope he’d ever meet a broad like that. She wasn’t shy about letting the world know how much she was enjoying her man, her moans far from subdued. Not that she was shy in general. Danny had been working for her while his boss had been in Europe, and she’d been walking around topless quite often, not at all minding his curious stare. Then again, she was a burlesque dancer. Being the center of attention wasn’t new to her, but to him, born and raised in Georgia, seeing a beautiful woman strutting around with her tits out certainly was. Out of respect for his boss, he’d looked away. Oh, and out of respect for God too, of course.

When he drove away from the house, he was all smiles. It was good to see Mr. Manson happy. Before Dita, he’d been unhappy quite a lot, shouting and swearing like the schmuck he could be. Oh yeah, before her, he’d only ever cheer up if that actor – the pretty boy who played the weirdo with scissors for hands – stopped by. His visits were short though, usually confined by his busy movie star schedule. According to Mr. Manson, he was only ever in the US when a new movie was in the making. He’d always look so sad talking about the guy. Why was anyone’s guess, Danny thought, and it sure wasn’t any of his business. Then he drove to the store to pick up groceries for Dita, who had requested soft toilet paper, figs and couscous.

* * *

January 5, 2004

Los Angeles, California

It was his birthday. Dita had arranged for them to visit a couple of museums, the short outing followed by a glass of red wine by the sea – a picnic – while stuffing their faces with cheese and crackers. If he were to be honest, he would’ve confessed that he’d prefer to just stay at the house, watch a movie in his sweatpants and maybe eat a hamburger or two, but he couldn’t tell her that. Besides, the grand finale of the celebration was sex, and it wasn’t just your regular good old missionary style, oh no. When your girlfriend was renowned burlesque dancer Dita Von Teese, making love wasn’t just making love. There was a show to be enjoyed, often a striptease followed by a very intense blowjob, which was in itself a small piece of heaven, and then she’d ride him. She was a powerful woman, a femme fatale if you will, and she knew exactly what to do with herself. It was beautiful.

They’d only spent an hour at the hotel before Danny picked them up and drove them back to the mansion. It was still early in the afternoon by then, much to Brian’s relief, and he kissed her on the cheek and walked to the bedroom.

_Where did I put those sweatpants? _He started going through his dresser, though he couldn’t find the pair of sweatpants anywhere. Impatient, he groaned and shouted, “Where are my sweatpants?”

“Laundry basket!” Dita yelled back.

“Great,” he muttered, rolling his eyes and contemplating buying an emergency pair of sweatpants.

Lily White made her grand entrance, bouncing down from the wall shelf she’d been sleeping in. She stretched and yawned on the carpet, clearly having been asleep up until then. When she saw that her Daddy was standing by the dresser, she meowed and rubbed her head and body against his calf, practically begging to be touched. He smiled at her, scooping her up in his arms.

“Hey there, pretty girl,” he said, rocking her gently as one would do with a baby. “Are you wishing me a happy birthday?”

Again, she meowed. He chuckled, scratching her under the chin. She never failed to brighten his day.

“Honey?” Dita asked from the doorway. The look on her face was unreadable, almost as if she had to constrain herself not to smile too widely. “Would you join me downstairs for a minute? I need you to have a look at something.”

_Hmm. It’s another birthday present, _he deduced. Because he was a gentleman – or at least he tried to act like one around his girlfriend – he acted clueless, saying, “Oh, what’s that?”

“Just come with me,” she said, now almost laughing. Good thing she wasn’t an actress.

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

As he followed her down the stairs, she kept talking about how lovely Paris had been. She had flown in for his show in France and they’d spent a couple of nights together, drinking both wine and absinthe. They’d held hands while walking down the picturesque streets, taking in the sight of people, of small boutiques and sculptures. He smiled to himself, remembering all the places they had visited, the things they had talked about and so on. That had been one hell of a weekend. Paris would forever be their city, and wasn’t that terribly appropriate?

“Happy birthday!” she suddenly exclaimed, startling him out of his thoughts. Before he knew what was happening, people jumped out from every corner of their living room, all of them shouting, “Happy birthday!” over and over. A live band started playing music – something better suited for 1930s Berlin – and black confetti and equally black balloons fell from the ceiling. Everyone was there. His parents were there, his colleagues were there and his friends were there. And in the middle of the room was a huge cake that depicted him and Lily White cuddling on the couch, both of them sound asleep. It was the most horrendous picture he’d ever seen of himself, and when you’re Marilyn Manson, that says something.

“… What’s this?” he asked, frowning. “Dita, what-”

“Oh, shush it,” she said and shoved a glass of champagne into his right hand. “Did you truly think a _picnic _was the best I could come up with?”

_Well, it still would’ve topped the time Rose made me pay for my own birthday dinner. And she was the one who had lobster and Russian caviar. Good thing she got food poisoning._

“Uh, thanks,” he said, kissing her. They descended the stairs hand in hand, the room now buzzing with laughter and small talk. Then his mother approached them with happy tears in her eyes. She hadn’t seen him in nine months and was feeling rather emotional.

“Brian,” she said and put her arms around him. “I’ve missed you so, so much.” She then hugged him so hard one could’ve thought she was trying to squeeze the life out of him.

“I’ve missed you too, Mom.”

“There you are, son!” he heard Hugh say. The moment his mother released him, he felt a pair of strong arms wrapping around him. His father smelled strongly of the same cheap cologne he’d been using for as long as he could remember. When he pulled back, putting his hand on Brian’s shoulder, he swore he could see wetness shining in his brown eyes. His heart immediately sank. It occurred to him that this tour had been too long – his absence leaving his folks in tears – and he made a mental note of visiting them more often, at least now that he’d be in LA for some time.

“Dad,” he said, offering his father a wide smile. “How’s the old car coming along?”

“It’s still in the garage,” his father said, shaking his head. “Hasn’t moved an inch.”

“I’ll get Danny to look at-”

“No-no,” his mother said, sending her husband a scolding look. “He needs to keep busy. He’s just sitting in the living room doing nothing, you know? Just watching TV.”

“Well, Danny could help him out a bit. It’d be no trouble.”

“You know what, son? I don’t need help with the car. I just haven’t felt like it lately.” Hugh offered his son a friendly smile. His mother, on the other hand, appeared to be annoyed with him. Brian, who had always felt nervous about getting caught in the middle of any argument between the pair, took a step back. Luckily for him, Dita walked over with glasses of champagne for his parents, an angel in disguise, and said, “Something to drink?”

“Oh, yes, thank you, dear.” Barbara accepted the glass and took a small mouthful of the stuff, rolling it around her mouth like an expert. She wasn’t fond of red wine, but she’d drink white wine and champagne. His father just shook his head at the offered glass, telling her, “I prefer beer,” in his gentlest voice, clearly taken with her.

“Of course. I’ll fetch you a bottle.”

“You’re too kind, dear,” Barbara said, brushing strands of blonde hair out of her face. “Brian, don’t let her out of your sight.”

He was about to answer when he saw a familiar face over his mother’s shoulder. His mouth fell open, though he couldn’t think of anything to say. It was Johnny. He was stunning as always, clad in a white suit that only he could pull off with such effortless ease, and the smile on his face was the kind that hit you like a bullet. But what had rendered him speechless was the unexpectedness of the situation. Not in a million years had he thought that Dita would reach out to Johnny – not that she knew about their whirlwind romance – and seeing him inside his house, well, it was like having the roof cave in. It was like having a bucket of ice water poured over his head. No, scratch that. It was like seeing an UFO, and out of that fucking UFO came Michael Jackson, Mickey Mouse and Charles Manson hand in hand while singing ‘My Monkey’.

_Why the fuck is he here? _He downed the glass of champagne in one go. _What the fuck did Dita do? _

“… Johnny,” he eventually said, plastering on a pleasant smile. At least he hoped it was a pleasant smile, but yeah, little hope of that. Johnny had probably seen through him a long time ago. Why was he hanging out with all these actors and actresses? They were fucking impossible to read and knew facial expressions better than most police investigators.

“Manson,” he said, and wow, that name sounded so foreign coming from him. “Your stunning girlfriend invited us-”

“Us?” Brian asked, unaware that he had interrupted him. His father suddenly elbowed him in the side and nodded in direction of his mother, who was red in the face.

“Vanessa and Lily are here,” the actor said, his voice somewhat strained. “Well, they’re here somewhere. Jack’s down with the flue, I’m afraid.”

“I see,” the singer mumbled, not exactly thrilled to learn she was there.

“Lily’s excited to see you. Been going on and on about her uncle Marilyn.” 

Brian put his hand on his mother’s back and pushed her forward. “This is my mother, Barbara,” he said, and the moment the actor locked eyes with his parent, the situation went from unexpected to unbearably awkward. Johnny looked his mother up and down and whistled, saying, “Some woman,” before embracing her, wrapping his arms around her. His father chuckled at the scene, Barbara looking rather flushed. Brian just wanted to sink through the floor. Now he knew his mother harbored a secret crush on his former lover. Isn’t that what all men want to know?

_Jesus fucking Christ. _As the hug ended, Johnny kissed his mother’s cheek and said, “That’s a lovely perfume.”

“Oh, aren’t you a nice man,” she said, stroking his arm. “Such a nice, handsome man. I love your movies.” She looked at her husband and said, “Don’t I love his movies, Hugh?”

_Mom. Jesus Christ, Mom – get a grip! _The singer bit the soft flesh of his cheeks, trying his very best to keep it together. More than anything else, he felt like telling everyone to just go home. But if there was one thing he wasn’t going to do, it was make a scene. That had, after all, been the point of them breaking up. Not that he would have minded, wasn’t like the media did a fine job at it without his contribution anyways, but Johnny had minded it quite a bit. _Johnny, the self-proclaimed coward. _

“What, you’re flirting with a younger man just before your husband’s eyes, Barb?” Hugh teased, winking at the actor. He just laughed, probably more used to these things than most people. It was still excruciating to watch.

“You’ll need to keep an eye on her,” Johnny commented, though for a moment there, his eyes let go of Hugh and wandered to his son, capturing him. For what seemed like an eternity, they just stared at one another, their eyes dancing a dangerous dance. It was intense. “Or else we might run off into the night.”

The elderly man grunted and said, “Take her. I bet that Nancy Swinton still wants a piece of this.”

“Dad,” Brian said, voice sterner than intended. “No need to bring up Nancy Swinton.”

“Oh, he’s just being silly,” his mother said, waving her hand at him in dismissal. She was still staring at Johnny with hearts in her eyes though, and had she been thirty years younger, maybe she would’ve gone for it. “He teases me like that all the time.”

“Ah,” Johnny said, inserting himself into the conversation again. “That’s how you make a marriage work. A little spice-”

“Like you would know,” Brian heard himself say. Out loud. Not inside his head. Out. Loud.

_Fuck-fuck-fuck. _Every pair of eyes were on him now, all of them frowning. They were all waiting for an explanation because nope, you don’t say shit like that without either making a joke or, well, you’ve got personal issues. He didn’t have a joke at hand, and he didn’t have any other kind of explanation either. Well, he didn’t have one he could talk about without revealing it all. And again, much to his great relief, his angel in disguise, Dita, reappeared. She had a bottle of beer in one hand and something else in the other. He wasn’t quite sure what it was. Looked like a small box. Another birthday present?

“There you go, Hugh,” she said, offering him the beer. The label said something in Greek.

“Thanks.” He smiled at her, drank some and then gave a small nod of approval. “Good stuff.”

“It’s from Greece. My friend, who’s a bit of a beer enthusiast, recommended I buy-”

“Daddy?” a small voice said. They all looked down and saw a child with huge brown eyes and pigtails. She was around five years old and seemed rather shy, which wasn’t at all strange. There wasn’t another child in sight, and the room was full of strangers, all of them adults.

“Oh, hello, sweetheart.” Johnny put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Where’s Mommy?”

It was like conjuring a demon. Vanessa was suddenly next to her daughter, her smile painfully tight as she greeted his parents. When her eyes landed on Brian’s face, he saw the suppressed anger. The feeling was mutual, and she was probably able to pick up on it. His smile could’ve easily been mistaken for a sneer.

“Manson,” she said in a polite tone of voice. “You don’t look a day older than forty.”

“Oh, but he’s turning thirty-five,” his mother said. Then she studied his face, her brows bumping together. “That make-up doesn’t do his natural beauty any favors, I’m afraid.”

_… Is matricide legal in any of the states? _To disguise his discomfort, he quickly gulped down some champagne.

“He’s quite the handsome man,” Dita said, putting her hand on his lower back. Her eyes were full of adoration as she said, “With or without make-up. I’ve seen it all by now,” which was enough to make his heart swell.

“Yes, he’s a handsome man,” Barbara agreed. “Tall like his father. He’s got his eyes too, you know.”

Hugh let out a low chuckle and said, “Is that a compliment I’m hearing, Barb?”

“You were such a handsome man,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “Now you’re fat.”

He laughed again. “You’re the one feeding me.”

“Now you’ve made me hungry,” she complained, her stomach letting out some weird gurgling noises to emphasize her statement. “Let’s grab a bite to eat, shall we, Hugh?”

“Sure.”

His parents took their leave, their eyes set on the small buffet.

“… I’m so sorry, Manson. Johnny must have misinformed me,” Vanessa said, her voice apologetic, but he wasn’t an unintelligent man and saw through the niceties. Vanessa had made that comment with the rather obvious intention of creating conflict between the two men. Johnny’s eyes shot up from his daughter to his wife, his expression that of poorly concealed annoyance.

“What are you on about, woman? He was born on this day in 1969,” he said matter-of-factly, not at all straining his brain to recall this detail from the autobiography he’d read at least ten times. Not that Brian knew, but he kept his copy of the book – still not signed – in a box under his bed. And that bed wasn’t the marital bed. His good memory still impressed the singer to some extent, mainly because he hadn’t the faintest idea when Johnny’s birthday was. Could’ve been yesterday for all that he knew. Or for all that he cared.

“Hmm,” Vanessa said, eying her husband while sipping on her glass of champagne. The single gleam of malice in her green orbs was enough to chill his blood. “I must have misremembered.”

“Yes, you must’ve.”

“I could have sworn you said forty-five.” She spoke in that irritate tone many women reserve for their clueless husbands, slightly sarcastic and with a biting edge. “But I must be wrong.”

Dita looked confused upon witnessing this less than pleasant exchange between Johnny and Vanessa. They were glaring at one another, both of them talking in hushed voices. The little girl’s eyes, big and brown like her father’s, darted from one parent to the other, a slight furrow appearing between her brows. Then her gaze landed on her godfather. Because the Gods have a good sense of humor, she adored him, always happy to be left in his care, which happened every now and then.

“Hi,” she said shyly from behind Johnny’s leg, her cheeks slightly red.

“Hey there, Lily-Rose,” he greeted her. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Good of you to come.”

“Happy birthday, _monsieur _Manson.” The little girl smiled at him, showing off her pearly whites and melting his heart in the process. She then asked, “Can I look at Lily White, please?” and walked over to him with her arms outstretched. Brian handed Dita his nearly empty glass of champagne and lifted the child into his arms, smiling when he felt her little hand on his scalp, her eyes big as she marveled at the state of his hair, or rather the lack thereof. It was shaved on one side and long on the other, and the shaved side felt quite nice to touch.

“Your hair is so pretty,” she complimented him.

“Thank you,” he said, feeling Dita’s eyes on him. She was probably thinking what a great father he’d be, which made him feel uneasy on some level. He wasn’t cut out to be a father – he was too selfish for that – but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a good babysitter. While he didn’t want kids, he did enjoy their company. They were honest and straightforward, qualities most adults lacked, and the love in their eyes was always genuine. Fear, which he considered to be some kind of hatred in itself, was never masked by an uncertain smile. In the US, everyone was taught to just smile at whatever intimidated them. Those smiles always meant submission. Fake.

“Can we go find Lily White-”

“Lily,” Vanessa said, pulling the young girl out of his arms. She gave a small sound of discomfort as her pigtail got caught in her mother’s bracelet and mumbled something in French, but Vanessa disregarded whatever it was her daughter had said. “Don’t bother Mr. Manson on his birthday,” she scolded her lightly. “We can look at the cats tomorrow.”

_Oh, so she isn’t allowed to ‘bother’ me on my birthday, but you can? Fucking cunt._

“They’re staying in the guest bedroom,” Dita explained, mistaking his now sour mood for confusion.

“We’ll be no bother,” Johnny assured him.

He smiled weakly. “Of course.” 

“I’ll go fetch another beer for your father,” Dita said, excusing herself from the conversation. Lily-Rose was now in tears because she wanted to look at the cats and her silly mother wouldn’t let her. Before Brian could explain that he’d gladly take her to the cats, Vanessa left with the child, her expression thunderous.

_Is she angry with me or with the kid? _he asked himself, but of course, there was no telling who she was angry with. Probably herself for being such a stupid cunt.

“… I’m sorry about her being here,” Johnny said softly, staring at the two as they walked outside and into the garden. “Truthfully, I had no say in it. Your lovely girlfriend called Vanessa and invited our entire family to come celebrate your birthday.” He wrinkled his forehead, now searching his pockets for the pack of cigarettes he knew he’d stashed somewhere. “I don’t know why she accepted.”

The singer let out a low groan before rubbing his temples, wondering if his head was about to detach from his shoulders and rocket into space. How could Johnny be so oblivious? It was infuriating.

“… She wants to supervise you… us,” he explained calmly, though he wasn’t really feeling too calm. “Wants to know if we’re…”

“Ah.”

“… She’s being a cunt.”

Johnny found the pack of cigarettes and nodded in direction of the veranda. “I need a smoke.”

The younger man was about to answer when Dita clanked a spoon against her glass, demanding the attention of everyone present. She was standing on top of a chair next to the huge birthday cake that blazed with thirty-five candles. When she clanked the spoon against the glass for a second time, the room quieted. The band stopped playing and the people stopped chattering, all eyes drawn to her. 

“Thank you all for coming,” she said, her smile widening. “I know my darling Brian is quite happy to see you all, especially after nearly _nine _months on tour. I would like to let him know that I’m so happy to finally have him back with me.” She paused, blowing him a kiss. Much to Johnny’s surprise, he ‘caught’ the kiss with his hand, kissed the hand, and then he winked at her. The public display of affection was something _his _Marilyn wouldn’t have done. No, not in a million years. He arched an eyebrow at the singer, who noted the questioning look on his face but completely ignored him.

“Over the last few years, I’ve come to really love Brian,” Dita continued, never once letting go of him with her eyes. “He’s sensitive, witty, patient, romantic, and above all else, he’s got the kindest heart…”

Johnny’s face seemed to be dripping with disbelief upon hearing Dita’s praise. The man she was describing was the new and improved edition, no doubt about that. _His _Marilyn would squirm and blush like a fifteen-year-old girl who hadn’t yet had her first kiss. _His _Marilyn would be brusque and hot-headed. _His _Marilyn didn’t want to pursue another lying, cheating woman with a frosted heart. No, there wasn’t a trace of _his _Marilyn in Dita’s words. But looking closely, there wasn’t much left of him in person either. This man, clad in a 1930s striped suit, complete with a vest and high-rise pants, wasn’t his Marilyn. This man, smiling and openly flirting with his girlfriend, wasn’t his Marilyn. This man was Dita’s Brian. Johnny’s eyes were dark as he swallowed the rest of his champagne, wondering where Brian now stored his absinthe. Or had he let go of that part of himself too, exchanging it for Eiswein?

Brian stood next to Dita. He kissed her, thanked her and blew out the candles.

“… Now,” the singer said, grimacing at the ugly photo of himself and his beloved cat, “let’s eat this freaking monstrosity of a cake.”

Johnny inwardly groaned. Since when did Marilyn Manson say ‘freaking’ instead of ‘fucking’? That was unforgivable. He couldn’t help but to loathe that bird, that Bettie Page impersonator, for having changed him into this bleak imitation of himself. But was it all her? He guessed that maybe, in the aftermath of Columbine and their relationship ending, he had wanted to walk down an unexplored road. To a man of his caliber, such a road was that of tradition. And then this enchanting, once-upon-a-time siren entered the picture and lured him in so that they could play Weimar Republic-era dress up in their fantasy mansion, because hey, that’s fun! Dilly-dallying around in a pink bubble made of swastikas and funny-looking haircuts. No, it didn’t matter who was to blame. He definitely couldn’t like this woman.

“Daddy?” he heard Lily-Rose say from next to him. He had no idea how long she’d been standing there, watching him as his face twisted into an ugly scowl. The child read him like a picture book – of course she did – and the next thing to fall from her lips were, “Are you angry with someone, Daddy?”

“No-no, sweetheart,” he said in his most paternal tone of voice, taking her hand. “I’m just impatient to, uh, to eat some cake. Looks delicious, doesn’t it?”

She fixed him with an unimpressed look but nodded, never one to say no to cake.

“I want a slice with Lily White’s face,” she declared, now tugging at his hand. “Come on – before someone else gets to it.”

* * *

They were eating cake when it happened. Dita had disappeared for some time, only to return in a peacock dress – he didn’t know else to describe it – and started dancing. She wasn’t stripping, of course not, but she was an experienced enchantress and the room was spellbound nonetheless, men and women alike unable to tear their eyes from her voluptuous figure as it swayed so elegantly before them. Johnny found himself rolling his eyes at her performance. Only when the skirt of her dress came off, revealing thin but muscular legs, did he notice that she was wearing pointe shoes. What ensued was a dance performance better suited for the ballet. Not that she was very good at it.

“… She’s pretty,” Lily-Rose said in a hushed, awed whisper. “Like Snow White.”

He couldn’t protest. Dita danced with a fluid elegance, her every movement graceful and elegant. That kind of smoothness, which looked like child’s play from the outside, came after thousands of repetitions. It came after countless of failures, and in the end, success. Johnny would know.

“You’re much prettier,” he told her, brushing dark locks of hair out of her face. And when the time was right, she would be. He’d need a rifle to protect her from stupid boys.

The music stopped playing; Dita stopped dancing. Brian, who was seated at the head of the table, clapped his hands, but she signaled for him to stop. Soon she was down on one knee next to him, popping the question.

“… Will you marry me?” she asked, her eyes shining with love. In her hand, she held a small box, and inside it was a ring that sparkled in the sunlight. Johnny started coughing, having nearly choked on air, or was it his own voice struggling to break free? When he heard “Yes, yes I will,” followed by a tremendous cheer from the crowd, he nearly fell off his chair. Vanessa was clapping her hands, though he knew she was watching him out of the corner of her eye, her smile so stiff she looked like she’d died and rigor mortis had set in.

“Is Uncle Manson getting married to the princess?” Lily-Rose asked innocently.

“I-I…”

“_Johnny_,” Vanessa all but hissed, putting a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Yes, sweetheart. The nice lady just proposed and gave him a ring, just like the one Mommy’s got.” Upon saying the latter, she glowered at her husband.

“… I’m going out for a smoke,” he declared, his head swimming. Vanessa was saying something, her brows knitted together, but he couldn’t hear her. Couldn’t understand her. Was she speaking in French? He decided to deal with it later. His throat felt too tight and he needed some fresh air – and ultimately, a cigarette. Before he managed to even get to the door, however, a familiar face obstructed his path.

“Going somewhere?” Jeordie asked, his voice indecipherable. “Funny how you always seem to be in a rush to get somewhere whenever I run into you!”

“I’m going outside for a smoke,” he mumbled, holding up his pack of cigarettes to prove he wasn’t lying.

Jeordie nodded and he flashed him a quick smile. The slightly narrowed eyes revealed his true emotions though, and he sounded too nice when he said, “Understandable. You know, I always feel like smoking when I’m upset. Must be a thing people do when, you know, they’re upset.”

“… Yeah.”

“Oh-oh-oh!” a guy with short, blond, spikey hair said. It took him a moment to identify this man as the keyboardist, Madonna Wayne Gacy, who had been bald for as long as he’d known him. “If it isn’t Captain Jack Sparrow. My, oh my.”

“I know, right? Totally caught me off guard,” Jeordie said, putting his arm around the taller man’s waist. The two of them proceeded to kiss, and it wasn’t just a peck on the lips, oh no. There was tongue – and spit. Johnny suddenly felt as if he’d intruded on a secret Manson family meeting.

“Uh…” the actor said, frowning. Before the two could make him any more uncomfortable, quite possibly by starting to jack each other off right in front of him, he escaped through the door and dashed into the garden. Behind a tall tree, he found a bench and plopped himself down. He could still hear the music, but the voices of friends, acquaintances and strangers were muffled. Instead of smoking a cigarette, he pulled out a flask and downed the precious vodka in one go. Probably not the cleverest thing to do, but hey, how clever can you be after the sort of day he’d been having?

When he eventually lumbered back inside, his heart and brain dulled by the alcohol, most of the guests had gone home. He saw Madonna Wayne Gacy – what was it they called him again? – and Jeordie cuddled up on the couch. The bassist cracked one eye open and noticed him standing in the door, but he didn’t move, probably too comfortable to be bothered. Brian and Dita were talking to another couple he didn’t recognize. The singer, who had once been moody and reserved, was now animated and lively. Johnny grunted, dragging his weary feet after him up the stairs. He wanted to sleep. Wanted to forget about this night. About the engagement.

“… Going to bed already?” he heard Brian say. Turning around, he saw the younger man standing with his back pressed against the wall. They were in the dark, empty hallway. No one was there to see.

“Thought it’d be for the best.” He had to work hard to keep himself from slurring his words. Damn it, why had he downed the entire bottle? “Lily-Rose is an early bird, after all.”

“I hope you aren’t leaving too early in the morning,” Brian said, sounding vaguely concerned.

“Ah, well, we’ll see.” He smoothed down his jacket, brushing away imaginary dust. “Vanessa’s being… difficult.”

The singer nodded. “She is.”

“Congratulations, by the way.”

Brian let out a deep sigh and said, “I never imagined things would turn out this way.”

“You aren’t much like your old self, you know,” Johnny pointed out, his voice strangely calm. That was but a façade. Inside him, the ocean of his heart was cast into a raging storm. Old wounds were ripped open by the waves of that storm, the blood gushing out. The darkness in him started welling up again, the one that made him clench his fists so tightly that he broke the skin on his palms. At that point, he was almost trembling with suppressed emotion. A kind of green-eyed rage.

The singer laughed. “No?”

“Happier,” he elaborated, and the word sounded about as forced as the smile on his face. “A new man, really.”

“… Took me a long time to get here,” the singer confessed. “Dita saved me.”

“From what?”

The younger man tilted his head to the side, his smile feigned, and said, “You,” as if it meant everything and nothing at the same time.

“Me?” the actor whispered, voice hoarse. Brian could see the rage rise in his face and predicted the likely outcome of this conversation. Within a second of thinking that thought, Johnny rushed forward, ramming his chest against his and pinning him up against the wall. He’d grown accustomed to Johnny’s violent outbursts a long time ago and didn’t as much as flinch. Sure, Johnny was handsome, well-mannered and funny, but there was a mean streak to his character, one that lurked just under the surface of those warm brown eyes.

“You’ve got some nerve,” the actor hissed, his hand cupping Brian’s cheek. “Some nerve.”

“You shouldn’t drink vodka,” Brian muttered back, now smelling the alcohol on his breath. “Makes you lose your fucking head.”

“Oh, now you can say ‘fucking’ instead of ‘freaking’?”

“Would you _please _let go of me?”

Johnny started laughing. It wasn’t happy laughter though.

“… I never said I left because I don’t love you,” he growled, though his voice was devoid of any real anger. How could he be angry with Brian, after all? He buried his face in the crook of his neck, relishing the closeness he hadn’t felt in so many years. He smelled good, he always did, but he wasn’t wearing the perfume he’d worn back in the day. Only now did he realize that he’d missed that scent. The thought made him want to cry, cry because so many things were lost to history, including that scent.

“No, I… I had to. Wasn’t by choice.”

“You left me because you’re a fucking wuss,” Brian hissed, slamming his fists against the brunet’s chest.

“I regret it.”

“Well,” the singer sneered, his eyes nearly black. “That isn’t relevant. Now, would you please let go-”

“Why would I?”

The singer let out a sharp breath before saying, “I don’t want this. I just got engaged, you piece of shit.”

“Tell me this marriage is for real,” Johnny challenged him, pressing a kiss to his neck. “Tell me you’re marrying her out of love.” He nipped at the sensitive skin with his teeth, surprised to find that he wasn’t responding to the caress. That wasn’t right. Pulling back, he found that Brian had squeezed his eyes shut. When he blinked them open again, tears started rolling down his cheeks.

“… You d-don’t get to do this to me.” Brian’s voice trembled as he said this, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, unable to meet the brown eyes that wanted to pierce through his soul and skin his heart. “You left me, Johnny, not the other way around. And you told me to move on – to ‘meet a girl, settle down’ and to ‘be well’.”

The actor pressed his lips to Brian’s, but he remained unresponsive. It was like kissing a corpse, and then he twisted his head away from him, muttering, “No.”

“No?” he breathed, kissing the side of his mouth.

“No,” he whimpered. “Please – stop.” 

Johnny froze. The realization that he was once again imposing on the singer made him jump back, his eyes round like marbles. Was he so dense he thought every goddamn person on the planet wanted to bone him just because of his face? Brian was biting down on his lower lip now, his expression so broken it hauled him back in time, back to the dressing room Hildesheim for the millionth time. Back to the scenario that still prompted the question ‘was it rape?’ And now he’d given in to those same primitive, disgusting impulses, allowing himself to invade his personal space and use physical force to get it his way.

“I’m sorry.” Johnny let go of him completely, taking a step backward. Brian didn’t respond, he just stared at him, sadness clouding his features. What was supposed to be among the happiest days of his life had suddenly turned into a nightmare, and surprise, surprise, at the center of this nightmare was Johnny.

“I-I’m so sorry,” he said again, raking his fingers through his messy brown hair. “I’m so, so…”

The singer held up his gloved hand, and for a second, Johnny wasn’t sure whether he was trying to silence him or signal for him to leave. Before he could ask, the singer removed the black piece of clothing, revealing the many self-inflicted scars that would never heal, much like their relationship. The scars were white and shiny under the light of the lamp. Some of them must’ve really hurt.

“Jesus, Marilyn,” he said, brows bumping together. “What did you do?”

“On the night I received that letter,” Brian said without making eye contact, “I cut myself with a razor every time you didn’t pick up the phone. So I cut myself twenty-four fucking times, and I drank enough absinthe to kill a fucking horse. Didn’t get alcohol poisoning because I puked it all up again – but the scars? Well, at least they’re a nice addition to my collection.”

_Especially seeing as they’re all born out of self-hatred. And isn’t all self-hatred the result of someone mistreating you? _

“… Jesus.” A sharp pang of guilt hit the actor’s chest, his mind racing.

“It wasn’t pretty,” Brian whispered hoarsely, putting the glove back on. “I was in hell for months afterwards.”

“Why on earth would you-”

“Oh, no, no, no.” A shaky laugh bubbled past his lips. “You don’t get to be all high and mighty. You just don’t.”

Johnny shook his head and said, “I’m so sorry I did that,” remembering the twenty-four missed calls. He’d been staring at his phone, his heart bleeding. Vanessa had been watching him like a hawk that day, and it didn’t matter how much he’d wanted to talk to or comfort the singer, it hadn’t been possible. She’d held him at gunpoint.

“You should be more sorry about trying to kiss me on the night of my engagement, you fucking asshole,” he said in a tone of voice that bordered on anger, though his eyes gave him away. They were shimmering with warm tears. “Dita’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me – and yes, I’m marrying her out of love. I’m not a wuss like some other people.” He gave a bitter laugh, thinking about Johnny’s reasons for breaking up with him. “And I can’t afford you trying to kiss me every time you’ve had a drink. You’re a fucking moron if you think that’s acceptable, and it doesn’t matter whether I’m single or not. I’m not some plaything!”

“Don’t yell. Someone might-”

“If you can’t keep your hands to yourself, I’ll have to keep my distance.” There. He had delivered his ultimatum. Depp looked positively crestfallen upon hearing it.

“… I’ll respect your wishes,” he said quietly, brushing tears from his eyes. “And I’m terribly sorry. No, really, I am.” He wanted to hug him, but he supposed that wouldn’t be a good idea. Instead, he reached out his hand and said, “I promise to respect you – and to not, um, repeat tonight’s…unfortunate events.”

The singer shook his head and said, “Amen to that.” And out of the goodness of his heart, he smiled and shook his hand.

They parted ways after that. Brian walked back to his few remaining guests, and Johnny, well, he went to bed. As he lay there, he stared up at the ceiling and listened to his heart as it pounded behind his ribcage. The room struck him as being too silent. He could sense that his wife wasn’t asleep. And because he didn’t know what else to do, everything about the night a complete and utter failure, he rolled her onto her stomach, tugged down her panties and fucked her good. She’d been pleasantly surprised, seeing as their love life hadn’t had a pulse in ages. It had been his fault, completely disinterested in fucking her, but now he was passionate, kissing her neck and touching her intimately. The next day, she glowed with happiness, and they left the mansion long before the newly engaged couple had stirred. Johnny didn’t know it yet, but the night before would be the last time he’d see _his _Marilyn in a long, long time. Dita’s burlesque bubble wouldn’t burst until two years later, but she wouldn’t be the one to blame. No, that’d be on Brian. He would cheat on her with a much younger woman, out of boredom more than anything else, and the safety of his marriage would crumble. Everything would.


End file.
